


Freeway

by et2brute



Series: Stone [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Gen, Infidelity, M/M, Poor Life Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 75,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/et2brute/pseuds/et2brute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>What Steve doesn't do is wait for a phone call, day after day. Or pay any mind to the dull ache in his chest. Or think about what it means to want someone who's made it clear they don't wanna be with you, 'cause they've got a good thing going with someone else. </i> </p><p>  <i>If he'd known about Pepper, that night with Stark never would've happened. He's got more self-respect than that. He doesn't like hurting people. If he doesn't believe these two things about himself, he's lost.</i></p><p>In which Steve is trying to find a place for himself in the twenty-first century, Tony is appallingly unfaithful to Pepper, and Loki returns to earth, joins the Avengers, and does not quite seek redemption or absolution. Sex, angst, and mutant civil rights, and doing the wrong things for the right reasons (and the right things for the wrong reasons).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the completely revised/rewritten _Patiently_ ; I like to think of the previous version as a messy sketch of what eventually became this. For those of you who waited the freaking year or so this has taken--thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> Also, guys, I have this amazing beta coomassie ([Ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coomassie)|[LJ](http://3bird.livejournal.com/)). You don't even know, this wouldn't be anything close to what it is without her. <3
> 
>  **On a somewhat related note:** as I've been focusing on original fiction, it is not likely that I will be continuing to update most of the stories here. If you're interested, I share a creative collective with my partner at [war + mercy](http://www.warandmercy.com). Stories, illustrations, poetry, et cetera. If original fiction's not your thing, then farewell and thanks for reading my stories on Ao3!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Steve watches Tony's face, takes in the sleepless, half-moon bruises under his eyes, the uneven trim of his goatee, the looseness of his mouth. Thinks about his lips, how they tasted. How they felt stretched tight around Steve's cock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor updates/corrections as of 2013AUG21.

In the white-washed present, where the layered and peeling past is juxtaposed beside strips of freshly gessoed progress, Steve Rogers can use Google. He's figured how to make calls on his bright-screened smartphone, all clean edges and bold blocks of color. He can even navigate the crooked and haphazard mosaic of modern New York public transit.

He can handle his motorcycle in the piecey jumble of city traffic, decades older than anything else on the road. He's more or less got used to the overwhelming amount of junk, a constant from all angles, hawked ruthlessly by an endless collage of marketing architecture.

He knows better than to believe what they say in television commercials. He's settled into twenty-first century life admirably, all things considered.

Doesn't mean he likes it. Just, he hasn't got much of a choice.

Problem is, after the Initiative Steve's world stretches tiny and tight around him, like a canvas too small for its frame. Listless weeks pass. His restlessness grows.

For something to do with his hands, he picks up a pack of cheap sketchpaper; pencils with a range of lead densities; a rubber eraser. He starts drawing again, and in the too-bright light of his living room, he carefully re-learns the smell of graphite. He makes hesitant plans to teach himself to paint.

He tries to reclaim bits of his past where he can, awkwardly using the internet to stream old movies and try to make sense of modern music. He researches recipes from his childhood. He tries very hard not to fumble through pages and pages of obituaries, tracing the fate of every name he can think of and find. He's successful most days.

Steve still spends a lotta time at his gym, beating the ever-loving hell outta old-world canvas punching bags against a desaturated backdrop: faded paint and discolored wood floors, waxed to a high gloss.

What Steve doesn't do is wait for a phone call, day after day. Or pay any mind to the dull ache in his chest. Or think about what it means to want someone who's made it clear they don't wanna be with you, 'cause they've got a good thing going with someone else.

If he'd known about Pepper, that night with Stark never would've happened. He's got more self-respect than that. He doesn't like hurting people. If he doesn't believe these two things about himself, he's lost.

So Steve sweeps all that junk under the rug and, instead, embraces the fierce satisfaction that comes of a job well done. Makes it his beacon, his inner firelight: chases off the sticky shadows of despair, keeps them from creeping close, cutting off his breath.

So Tony Stark used him. So what—Steve helped save New York City. In all her gilt-and-garbage glory, he saved her.

Now he's just trying to find some breathing room, fit into this bright, brittle world. There's too much space within the soft grays and blues of his apartment, too many sharp edges. It's angular and cold. Alien. He can't figure how to make it a home.

* * *

He means to go to church. He means to find one he really likes, to recapture the feeling he got when he was smaller. When he was young and physically powerless.

It would be a place, regular. Sundays. Somewhere to belong for an hour every week. He could start small, could weave a few solid strands together through the frayed and groundless tapestry his life's become. Build from there.

But Steve doesn't go to church, 'cause he never finds what he's looking for.

What he does find—churches run outta seedy storefronts or built like fancy executive buildings. Small churches that move around to whatever litter-strewn stripmall will host 'em, and big, formal churches with the stone floors and high, jewel-toned windows he's used to.

None of them ring true. As if, while he slept, the _essence_ of Catholicism was altered to fit newer generations.

When Steve was a kid, the hard wooden pew had hurt his legs and his back. During the winter, the air'd bled in through doors half-rotted with age, feeble under decades of worn sealant and stain. Had him shivering for hours.

Churches shouldn't be comfortable. Discomfort's a reminder. It says, You're not here to feel better. You're here to _do_ better.

Steve's not looking for absolution, so he's unhappy when he finds it. Seems to be the thing, nowadays: people do wrong by people, go to church, ask forgiveness. They don't change their behavior. Just keep hurting each other and apologizing for it.

Steve's never held with original sin, 'cause a man's mistakes are his own. A god says otherwise, that's not a kinda god Steve'd get on with too well. It's a hell of a bully who punishes you for the trespasses of others.

But, conversely, people are responsible for their own mistakes. The real sin's when you don't learn from them.

Church isn't for wiping your slate clean. Maybe you're punished for the bad you do, and maybe you're rewarded for the good—but they don't cancel each other out. None of it ever goes away.

No, Steve went to church so he could feel, at the end of the day, he'd done all he could. To be reminded when he got it all wrong. To learn to do better, next time around.

Except _next time around_ is _now_ , a now where Steve's trapped in an airless sky, an isolated freefall. Searching and searching for something to come to grips with, to slow his descent. Coming up short every time.

* * *

Mondays, he meets with a SHIELD counselor. They won't let him outta the program completely, so he makes do with requesting someone new every couple weeks. He figures they'll eventually run outta people and let him off the hook.

His life's an abstract piece of art, removed of its context, ever-changing based on the angle you inspect it from. Deconstructed, the pieces scattered through time and space.

Doesn't matter how well you mean. Some things you can't put back together.

* * *

After Thor's taken Loki home in a rush of ethereal wind, after Tony spirits Bruce off to Stark Tower and never bothers with a damn phone call, after SHIELD splinters apart Natasha and Clint to perform whatever's up next on the liars-and-killers docket—Steve wakes up in the early, muted dark of morning.

In his bereft apartment in Brooklyn, the moon spilling like dusty white chalk over the empty half of his bed, he's got nothing to do, nowhere to go, and too much fight in him to sleep.

* * *

The second Monday after helping to avert a global crisis, a young woman who'd reminded him a bit of Bucky—blunt, carelessly affectionate, kinda overwhelmed by Steve in his current circumstance—asked him what he was most uncomfortable with in today's society. Then she'd asked him what he saw as constants in his life, aspects he could still identify with.

He'd thought about the barely-there clothing dames wore these days. The endless reach of skyscrapers. The cacophony of vehicles clogging the streets like a carnival of metal and blaring horns and car exhaust.

Thought about Peggy's bright lipstick. Howard's shameless grin: brilliant and half-cocked and crookedly kind, younger when Steve knew him than his son is now.

Hydra.

The Chitauri.

The deep-sea blue of the tesseract, the shadowy teal blue of backlit ice. Falling asleep in halo of perfect pale arc reactor blue.

Eventually the girl'd said, "I don't think there's anything I can do for you, Captain Rogers." Her smile had flickered out. She'd sounded so sad. "But I'll definitely write you a referral."

That Sunday, Steve finds himself in a spare, grayscale room at SHIELD HQ, windowless under blinding fluorescent ceiling lights, sitting across from a man in a wheelchair. He's older, probably in his late sixties, with a clean-shaved head and jaw. His kind mouth looks like it was drawn on in one broad, pink stroke, and he dimples when he smiles. He looks honest. He looks sharp and clever.

Steve's not sure how someone can be each of these things simultaneously.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers," the man says. His voice is educated and cultured; his shoulders are low and relaxed when he unlaces his fingers to shake Steve's hand.

"Agent Hill told me you came in as a special favor," Steve mentions. At this point, he's not sure what another psychiatrist can do for him. "Appreciate you taking the time to see me."

Their palms slide together, and what follows the contact is immediate and steady. Warmth. It permeates every part of Steve, swallows him whole, leaks outta his thoughts in a slow, languorous rush 'til something shakes loose.

He gets an image in his head, immobile and cold: a collection of sea glass. A stick drawing of icicles on a field of frost. Translucent stones, and sunlight filtering through leagues and leagues of wintry salt ocean.

Steve's never considered it before. How maybe, when he came outta the ice, there were pieces of him that never fully thawed.

He feels the ghost of an echo, then: memories, melting and indistinct. Sweet and lost to him.

He opens his eyes. Hadn't realized they were shut tight.

"Who are you," he asks, the words coming out short and rough. He's got his palms pressed to his face to cover the wetness there.

"My dear boy," the old man says gently, eyes like bright, pure flecks of sky-colored pigment on leathery paper. His hands are once more folded in his lap. "I am truly sorry for your loss."

"Which?" Steve asks, hoarse and wounded.

"The whole of your life, of course," is the kind, rueful reply.

* * *

Charles Xavier is a mutant, which isn't as much of a future-present thing as a been-around-awhile-but-only-recently-went-mainstre am thing. He explains what he can do, and Steve lays down on a hard, uncozy couch and lets him get to it.

"If there is anything you wish to keep private," Charles tells him, "simply imagine the knowledge as wrapped up tightly inside of a black box. I will respect your privacy."

Steve asks, not 'cause he's concerned, but outta general interest, "That help protect me from other people like you?"

"Heavens, no," Charles murmurs serenely, patting Steve on the shoulder. "It's like painting a target on a glass skyscraper so I'll know not to peer inside."

"Comforting," Steve exhales, shutting his eyes. "Are all telepaths so considerate?"

"Not by half," Charles replies. There's a smile in his voice, and he touches the inside of Steve's wrist. Rests the pads of his fingers over his pulse. It's oddly comforting.

Later, he tells Fury: "Steven's mind is truly remarkable. Everything is very clearly divided, and there are no gray areas so much as areas weighed carefully in context. It is all quite tidy. He shows no signs of PTSD that I can detect, and his mind reacts instantaneously to any outside stimuli. He learns at a frankly alarming rate." Charles pauses thoughtfully. "It is a shame all elements of that serum were lost; from it, we might have derived treatments for countless mental ailments."

The director shows rare deference to Charles throughout the entire conversation. It makes Steve wary.

"If it isn't stress or trauma or shock," Fury asks bluntly, hands clasped behind his back as he watches Charles' face with a hard eye, "then why is he having trouble adjusting?"

Charles looks at Steve, meets his eyes with warmth and sympathy. "As overwhelming as the circumstances may seem," he says, "the root of the problem is much simpler."

His wheelchair is parked beside the couch where Steve's seated. Bent forward with his elbows on his knees, Steve glances at him curiously. Like this, they're almost of a height.

Charles sighs. "Steven is lonely. He needs regular social contact."

Again, Steve feels something creak and ache in his chest, feels a coldness that bleeds out by degrees.

Charles says, with a firm kinda gentleness that surprises him, "You can't assign him friends, Nick."

After he leaves, Fury stands stiffly at Steve's side as they watch the X-Jet lift off. It seems unnecessarily opulent. Tony doesn't fly all over the city unless he's Iron Man, and Steve thought _that_ was flashy.

He's starting to realize he's moving in the circles of some very powerful people. That maybe Tony's flashiness comes mostly from Tony's personality.

And now he's thinking about Tony again, so he stops.

"Rogers," Fury says, turning away from the landing pad and heading back into SHIELD HQ. The wind sweeps across the flat rooftop, causes his long coat to twist and snap. "I'm assigning you some friends."

Natasha's at his door the next day. She's got on jeans and a light jacket, her hair short and choppy in a tiny ponytail at the base of her neck. She doesn't look like a spy. She looks like someone's girlfriend.

Not that she can't be both, Steve thinks conscientiously. He wonders if he's being sexist.

"If you call me 'ma'am'," she warns before he can say hello, even as she pushes past him into the apartment, "I'll have to murder you with a penknife. I won't have a choice."

"They still got those?" Steve asks, stepping aside.

"I'm sure I could find one lying around," she says with a narrow blade of a smile, "but if not, I've worked with less."

It's not 'til after Steve shuts the door that he realizes he's essentially a bachelor, alone in his living room with a beautiful dame. The air smells just the slightest bit different.

It doesn't have the impact it otherwise might've, in a different time and place. Also, he's seen her take down alien monsters with her thighs. If that's not the clearest definition of _boundaries_ , Steve can't say what is.

"Noted. What can I do for you, Miss Romanov?"

"Natasha," she corrects. "And you're taking me out to lunch."

She chooses a bakery-cafe picked out in pale greens and muddy browns. It's got high windows, frosted on the bottom, with a bar table underneath. The spindly stools have short backs and tall armrests.

They sit together and look out the window. Natasha watches the strangers outside, and maybe she's daydreaming. Maybe she's taking in every small detail, maybe she could hunt down any random dozen pedestrians ten years from now, tell them what they were wearing out on the streets today.

He's glad, suddenly, to be here with her. To know she won't fill the silence with stilted conversation.

He puzzles over French-sounding appetizers. The waiter doesn't even look up from his order pad when Steve stumbles over the words, feeling cramped and bulky. But it's not horrible. With someone else here.

"Pretty soon you'll be just like every other New Yorker," she adds, sipping mineral water. With the sun on her face and shadow just behind her, she's a study in contrasts and contradictions. Color where the light touches her and darkness beyond. A beautiful facade in pale washes over the sharp lines of her hard, base nature.

Steve wonders if she'll let him paint her, someday. When he learns to do it properly.

He smiles. It's not very big, but it doesn't feel forced. "Way I see it, I'm pretty much the original New Yorker nowadays."

"I'm sure Stark would have something to say about that," Natasha purses her lips, eyes dancing. She uses her fork to angle off a piece of her lemon poppyseed cake for Steve. At first he thinks maybe she'll spoon-feed it to him, like his mom used to when he was sick. He's not sure where the impression comes from—he's in perfect physical health, and Natasha's nothing like his mother.

She sets it on the corner of his plate.

"Then again," she continues, "'contrary' is more or less a staple descriptor of his personality. He'll play devil's advocate all night just to prove he can make you doubt your own position. Even if you're right."

Steve eats the bit of cake. It doesn't taste at all like he remembers—it's sugary and bland. The flavor distantly echoes cellophane. He wipes at his mouth with a napkin. "No, I think it's more he'd argue to make sure you knew what you thought you knew."

Natasha orders a latte and Steve thinks, Socrates. Tony is like Socrates. He wonders how he never made the connection before.

Unsettled, Steve can't help but draw parallels. He knows how one of these stories ends. He knows what happens to people who pick other people apart to see how they tick. At worst, Tony makes enemies outta everyone who can't hold together under his scrutiny; at best, he finds people he likes and approves of, and by the end they want nothing to do with him.

"Fury told me to set up regular playdates for you," Natasha says eventually. "But I'm a busy girl. I'd delegate to Clint, but he's on a hit in Argen—," she pauses at the look on Steve's face, and her own hardens almost imperceptibly. "I know how you feel about it, Cap," she tells him, and this is what he likes about Natasha: she's whoever she needs to be on a mission, but when it's just her, she always gives it to you straight. She reminds him a bit of Peggy. Solid, even if she's not a sure thing.

"You guys aren't," Steve starts, and he's got no idea what to say that's not _murderers_.

"Bad guys? We are," Natasha says, not unkindly. "But less, now." Her full lips flatten into a thin line, but her eyes've softened. "It's hard to be a spy when you're a famous superhero."

Steve drinks his coffee and doesn't reply.

Natasha looks like she's about to say something else, but then her phone starts to vibrate. It's quieter than most of the modern-day noises Steve's learned to tune out. He's got sensitive ears; there's hardly a day goes by he doesn't gotta sit through some irritating sequence of buzzes and hums and jingles. Makes him kinda hate being in public, now and then.

When she answers, her face immediately slips free of all expression. "Is this going to become a habit, sir?" A pause. The barest trace of a smirk. "Seventeen-hundred sharp, got it." She hangs up and gets to her feet.

Steve stands outta habit and watches her gather her things.

"This mission has been officially aborted," she tells him, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder. "But if you ever want to hang out, call me sometime. Thanks for lunch."

Steve offers his hand. She stares at it, then up at him. Rolling her eyes, she gives him a one-armed hug around the waist, too quick for him to flounder or feel awkward. "I should be back Thursday afternoon," she says. Today is Monday.

She leaves after making sure Steve's got her phone number.

He takes his time finishing his coffee. He doesn't finish his cake.

On the way home, he stops at Old World Grocers and asks Tom, the eighty-ish owner and manager, if he's got any traditional cookbooks.

He shows Steve the rack, and Steve takes his time picking through the faded volumes 'til he finds the recipe he's looking for.

He purchases the book and the necessary ingredients. He also tries to buy groceries for the next week. It's not something he's used to, stocking up. Before he joined the army, he never had that kinda money. While he was serving, he never had to cook.

He gets home, does a thorough inventory of his baking utensils. He's able to roughly approximate what he needs.

Then he reads the instruction manual for his oven. Eventually, he preheats it.

As he stirs poppy seeds into batter that smells like lemonade, he thinks: Here's to the twenty-first century.

* * *

At noon the next day, after Steve's run about twenty miles and just as he's getting outta the shower, his phone rings. He doesn't recognize the number when he answers. "Hello?"

"Steve." It's Bruce's voice, soft and steady. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, of course not. Can I help you, Doctor Banner?"

There's a slight pause. "I think we can dispense with formalities," he says, amused. "You've fought beside the—other guy. And you've seen me naked," he adds as an afterthought.

Steve coughs out a startled note of laughter. "You got a point there. Bruce."

He can hear the doctor's smile frame his reply: "Are you doing anything later? I was wondering if you'd stop by Stark Manor. I'd like to take a blood sample, if that's okay." He pauses, and Steve waits. "If it isn't, I completely understand."

"This about the serum?" Steve asks, shifting his phone between his ear and his shoulder.

"Right," Bruce sounds hesitant. Steve supposes he would, too, if he were the failed experiment talking to the guy who got lucky.

"Sure," Steve says. "What time?"

"Well, that depends. How long will it take you to get here?"

About a half-hour later, Steve finds himself outside a huge mansion that's got none of the clean, modern lines Tony favors and all of the artless grandeur Howard thrived on.

He rings the bell. No one answers. He rings again, and there's muffled yelling, a distant thump, and then a minute or two of silence.

Eventually the door opens and, for the first time in three weeks, Steve's face-to-face with Tony Stark.

* * *

"Steve," Tony says, eyes wide and surprised. His hand's loose against the door frame. He doesn't seem to have the presence of mind to let Steve inside.

Steve kinda wants to skip past whatever awkward conversation they're gonna have. And he kinda wants to shove Tony up against the wall. And he kinda wants to punch him in the face.

He recalls, in hazy detail, his last morning on the helicarrier: sitting on the corner of Tony's bed, still damp from a slow shower in Tony's bathroom. Scribbling a terse, careful note with nervous hands beside a sleeping body. If he'd listened to those steady breaths a little while before leaving—well, Steve's lost a lotta people in a handful of instants. The world may long be over the bright lives of Bucky Barnes and Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandoes, but Steve's grief is fresh. He takes what comfort he can.

"Tony," Steve finally acknowledges. "Is Doctor Banner—?"

"Bruce, please, Steve," Bruce says from somewhere inside, and Tony finally gets outta the way.

Steve does everything he can not to touch him as he passes by, but he feels the ghost contact of fingertips low on his back. When he looks over his shoulder, Tony's shutting the door, hands to himself. Not even looking at Steve.

"I want to be clear," Bruce murmurs, his knuckles twisting together. He guides Steve through the front room by his elbow, almost as an afterthought. "I respect you as a person; I am not objectifying you; you are not a lab rat." He smiles in his restrained, careful way. "That said, I'd like to take some blood samples and run a few comparative analyses."

"That's fine," Steve says. Now he thinks about it, he wonders why this didn't come up sooner.

Bruce excuses himself to finish setting up, and Tony says, "Are you hungry? There's coffee—"

"Coffee's still not food," Steve murmurs without thinking. Tony glances sharply at him, expressions unidentifiable and tight and unhappy warring over his face.

"I remember," Tony says, his words suddenly heavy with everything between them, and Steve crosses his arms. Just for a place to put them. Steadfastly refuses to think about that conversation, the one where he'd realized how _bad_ Tony was at taking care of himself. The one that made Steve want to do it for him. Just to be sure it got done.

Tony watches him for a long moment before ducking his head into the refrigerator. It's much bigger, more angular, than the one at Steve's apartment.

Steve leans against the countertop a safe distance away and thinks about nothing. Including the canted lines of Tony's body, or how the bright yellow kitchen lamps catch the curves of his face. Soften the fine shape of his bones, rather than throwing them into sharp relief.

The color's all wrong, warm and vibrant against Steve's quiet memory of cool arc reactor blue in a dark room.

It's so clear in his mind his mouth goes dry. It's been nearly two weeks, and he _still_ spends every morning coming into his fist, gasping Tony's name. It's that bad, this thing. He needs to shake it. Tony's got someone, Tony's happy, Tony made the mistake of not saying no when Steve _threw himself at him_. It's no one's fault, it should never've happened, and Steve needs to get _over it_.

Tony emerges with a plastic tupperware container. He passes it over, a metal fork balanced on top. "Cold pasta," he says, mouth quirking. "Bruce does most of the cooking these days. So, leftovers."

"Right," Steve says around the knot in his chest. The bowtie noodles are dark green and red and yellow, and the dressing is spicy and oily. It's good, when he takes a bite of it. So he takes another, and it's great this time 'cause he realizes he doesn't have to talk.

Tony makes coffee in relative silence. Presently, they're standing and eating and drinking, not looking at each other and not saying a word. There're perfectly serviceable chairs in the otherwise-empty kitchen, but neither of them sit.

It becomes increasingly difficult to ignore their proximity—details like soft, worn jeans and a faded blue t-shirt. Wild hair. A smudge of black on a stubbled chin.

Tony looks like he hasn't slept in days. Without the extra layer of distance afforded by expensive slacks, without button-downs and suit jackets and ties and fancy shoes, without his damn _armor_ , he looks bare. Approachable and human. He looks touchable, and Steve's got his heart in his throat.

"What," Tony asks, knitting his eyebrows together. His sleeves are rolled up. When he reaches over to refill his mug, there's a crease on his elbow from leaning against the counter.

"Nothing," Steve says, looking back down at his food.

Tony exhales through his nose. Then he says, all at once and into his coffee, "I'm sorry I didn't call." He tilts his head up, meets Steve's eyes like it costs him something, like he doesn't have everything he's ever wanted in the world. It's frustrating to no end. "I meant to call, but then I thought I should give you some space, and then I got caught up with the Tower plans and I just," he gestures elaborately, except his shoulders are kinda hunched in, "...didn't."

"It's fine," Steve says, 'cause it's gotta be. Doesn't matter how his chest's gone hot and tight. Doesn't matter how it's awful, that someone can make you want them, make you miss them. They don't even mean to: they don't even need you.

Tony sets his half-empty mug on the counter. "Look, Steve—"

"Sorry about that," Bruce says, wandering back into the kitchen. He's wearing loose cotton pants. Steve hadn't noticed before, but his dark gray t-shirt's got the Black Window sigil picked out in worn red ink. "I had everything ready, but then Tony accidentally took out one of the divider walls. It was kind of a mess."

Tony's at least got the grace to look ashamed. Sorta. "Hazards of sharing a lab."

"You could really hurt somebody," Steve says. It comes out angrier than he means, and a fresh flush of irritation rushes through his body when Tony simply shrugs.

"Bruce is pretty much indestructible," he points out. "My lab, my lab equipment. Are you saying I can't break my own things, Rogers?"

"You need to think about other people," Steve says. "You—"

'It probably wouldn't kill you to get some rest," Bruce mentions lightly, "before updating the armor's touchier protocols."

Something ugly and hard crosses Tony's face, but for whatever reason it dissipates as soon as he meets Bruce's gaze. "It was a relatively small explosion." He gestures benignly. "I'm doing better."

"Right, well," Bruce says with a half-smile before turning to Steve. "Moving right along."

Steve ends up sitting on a medical table in the basement. It's drafty and not at all what he expected, but Stark Tower's still being rebuilt and this is technically just a home. A really big, really expensive home.

He wonders if Howard ever kept a lab here. He wonders a lotta things about Howard, really. Maybe someday he'll be able to ask without the accompanying twist in his chest.

Nearby, Tony is fiddling with—schematics, Steve thinks. For some kinda machine. Blueprints suspended in the air, delicate and ever-shifting, as endlessly incomprehensible as lovely. Breathtaking like flame and spun glass when you've only ever worked with chisel and stone.

Tony looks up at him, and Steve looks away.

Bruce, who's been prepping a needle, takes Steve's arm in his hand. "I want to be clear. I'm not going to try to reverse-engineer the serum." His fingers are splayed, blunt and careful, dark beneath the thin latex of his gloves, over the alcohol swab on Steve's skin. "I'd just like to see if I can determine where I—went wrong. Maybe use your blood to fix mine."

He looks uncomfortable. Steve doesn't understand why.

"I trust you," Steve says soberly. He looks at Bruce's face, finds his own reflected back at him in the doctor's glasses.

Bruce raises his eyes, startled. He nods wordlessly and reaches for the syringe.

"Bruce," Tony says, and he's suddenly hovering close, all hands and gentle earnestness. "Brucey-Bruce. I can field this part if you wanted to warm up the centrifuge."

There's a span of seconds where they have a fleeting, quick conversation with their eyes. Steve almost misses it.

But he didn't miss the slight tremor in Bruce's fingers. And he doesn't miss Bruce nodding gratefully at Tony before turning away.

Tony situates himself between Steve's knees, takes Steve's elbow in hand and leans in close. He smells like laundry detergent and coffee and sweat. There's a whiff of smoke in there, a hint of plaster. There's shampoo. Salt.

"He okay?" Steve asks softly, voice pitched low so Bruce can't hear them across the room. He tries not to think about body heat.

"Make a fist," Tony instructs, tapping the vein. Steve hardly feels the needle.

As the tube steadily fills up, Tony says quietly, "He has a lot of bad memories attached to—well. Blood, experimentation." He pauses, pressing a cotton ball over the puncture site as he withdraws the needle. Then he brushes his thumb over the tiny red mark left behind. It vanishes in moments. "The other guy."

Steve watches Tony's face, takes in the sleepless, half-moon bruises under his eyes, the uneven trim of his goatee, the looseness of his mouth. Thinks about his lips, how they tasted. How they felt stretched tight around Steve's cock.

Tony sets the syringe on a table. When he turns back to Steve, mouth open like he's about to say something else, his breath hitches.

Steve stares him down, defiant, aware that his cheeks are flushed and his heart's racing. Aware that Tony's taking in every detail, eyes catching on Steve's lips and the flash of his throat.

"Steve," he chokes out, and he's reaching his hand forward to touch Steve's face, and Steve's not—he can't turn away. He can't actually stop this. Tony's engaged and Bruce is yards away with his back turned and Steve can't _stop this_.

But Tony apparently can. He turns sharply, gets his fingers around the vial of blood and walks over to Bruce.

Steve wishes he'd never learned what it was like, falling asleep with him.

"Here you go, gumdrop," Tony says easily. Presses the tube carefully into Bruce's waiting hands on his way to the stairs. "I'm gonna pass out for like. Two hours. Wake me up early in the event of science or dinner."

"Science or dinner," Bruce echoes pleasantly, and Tony leaves without a backward glance.

Steve hops off the table and tries not to stare after him like a lost kid.

"This next part isn't really as exciting as it sounds," Bruce says, motioning toward the centrifuge. Steve moves to stand next to him.

"If it's gotta do with finding a cure for the Hulk," Steve replies, "I'd say it's pretty exciting."

Bruce flashes a sideways smile, small and quick. Steve wonders if, before he moved in with Tony, he was as isolated as Steve is now. If he's still getting used to having other people around.

He's fiercely glad Bruce isn't alone anymore.

Steve's outta his depth with science, so he watches Bruce's face instead of his hands. The wrinkle in his forehead, the focus of his deep-set eyes. Sometimes Bruce explains what he's doing, and sometimes he doesn't.

At one point he's got the sample under a microscope. There's a second sample too, from a glass jar labeled _green_.

Whatever happens on the glass must be vitally discouraging, 'cause eventually Bruce steps back with his hands in a tight knot at his navel. He's staring blankly at the slides.

"Doctor Banner?" Steve asks quietly. Then he says, "Bruce."

"I'm sorry," Bruce says. "Could I—I'd like to be alone for a minute."

Steve's a man who values privacy as much as anyone else. But he also knows what it's like to send someone away, not 'cause you don't want them—but 'cause you don't know you _got_ them.

Steve touches Bruce's shoulder. "Tell me what happened."

There's a beat of silence, anxious and sad. Then Bruce says, "Okay. Yeah." He exhales slowly and rhythmically. Carefully untangles his tight, desperate hands from each other and lets them fall to his sides. Then drags his eyes to Steve's face.

The bone-deep disappointment that radiates from his small, compact body makes Steve sick in his guts. It's a tremendous relief when his thready voice eases into practical detachment.

Bruce says, "The way my blood cells react to certain potential treatments tells me whether or not those treatments will be successful. Best case—the Hulk cells will succumb to the treatment and all traces of the other guy will be eradicated." He pauses. "Worst case, the Hulk cells infect the treatment cells. That's what usually happens."

"And this time?" Steve asks, pretty sure he knows already. Bruce looks up at him, smiling flatly. It's so many leagues from good humor that Steve wonders how it's even a smile at all. Bruce seems full of these not-smiles.

"What happened this time," Bruce says, angling in a bit, "was nothing. Congratulations, Cap. The serum makes you invulnerable to infection by its angry green cousin."

"Bruce—"

"But you aren't a cure." Bruce turns away. "I had this funny idea that maybe I was just—unfinished. That all I needed was a, a missing part of the code." Even though he doesn't say it, Steve can hear it clear as day. How he was probably Bruce's last lead.

"Well, back to the drawing board," Bruce says, except he's turned so his back's to Steve. His face is hidden, and his voice is the same as always. But there's something crucial and telling to the angle of his hunched shoulders, the way he's ducking his head. How he's got a hand on the counter pressed flat, like it takes everything he is to keep from curling it into a fist.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, 'cause there's nothing else. He doesn't bother hiding the sympathy in his words. Peggy'd hate it, Tony'd hate it—plenty of people would hate it. But Bruce might feel just that smallest bit better 'cause of it. Might not see it as pity, just fellow feeling.

"It's not your fault," Bruce says. "It's mine."

"Doesn't mean you deserve this," Steve says. Then he adds, "Can't believe Tony wouldn't leave you alone about it." He remembers walking in on them on the helicarrier, Tony poking and prodding at a dangerous situation just to watch it go off. How angry Steve'd been, and how worried.

"Well, he's not the first brilliant, dark-haired scientist to cross my path. Or to want to help me." Bruce starts to tidy up. When he finally turns to face Steve, he looks rumpled but solid. Composed. He touches Steve's arm, and Steve feels a surge of affection that, oddly, kinda reminds him of Natasha. "But he's the first person I met—after—who was more interested in me than the other guy."

Steve says, "I think Tony's like that. With people he loves." He's not sure where it comes from, but it hangs there between them.

Bruce is silent for several moments. "Yeah," he says finally. "He is."

* * *

Steve goes home and makes supper. He's got a slice of lemon poppyseed cake for dessert, and it's just as good today as it was yesterday.

Before he falls asleep, he notices the status light flashing on his phone.

He hasn't got any missed calls, but there are two text messages. Both from Tony:

_Why didn't you stay for dinner?_

_Tomorrow you're staying for dinner._

* * *

Steve doesn't actually plan on visiting Stark Manor again, but that's where Fury tells him to go when he gets the call, early next morning, to suit up.

Thor's on Asgard. Widow and Hawkeye are outta the picture, probably outta the country.

So the first time Steve faces down the militant, volatile mutant named Magneto, it's with Iron Man and the Hulk at his side.

Specifically, Iron Man's above. Hulk's just behind, scaling a building, bulging muscles coiling and stretching for the jump.

Magneto gestures with his elegant fingers, and the hood of a car peels back and away. Swirls through the air like a bolt of cloth, spins into a point.

It becomes very clear, very quickly, that Tony's at a horrible disadvantage.

Their opponent can twist metal with his brain. He can levitate metal and use it to fly; he can shape it into piercing projectiles and send it hurtling through the air, and Tony needs to get the hell _outta here._

"There's a safe distance," Tony insists over the comm. "There has to be, if I'm far enough away I don't think he can—"

That's when the line goes dead in a crush of static. Steve jerks his head up and around, sees the stilted flash of red and gold against a summer sky.

The thing about vibranium is concussive force disturbs it about as well as light disturbs a mirror. The other thing about vibranium is it's not physically heavy.

A third thing, a thing Steve's only learning just now, is that Magneto can't control it or deflect it.

That's how it looks, anyway, when Steve flings it at his head.

Tony's falling to Earth in monochrome, a gleaming tumble of precious stones. Hulk's screaming and launching himself through the air, a disruptive and unnatural streak of green. Magneto's dazed and listing like a half-finished portrait, composed of uncertain and badly-sketched lines. But he'll be righting himself soon.

Steve's unarmed, outta his head with worry. His hands are sweating; there's fear all down his back. He experiences abject terror, thinking about the damage Hulk's gonna do trying to catch an already-mangled Iron Man—

—and that's when, over a crash of thunder and a burst of bright lightning, Thor appears.

* * *

Jane Foster cries more than any dame Steve's ever met.

It's three hours later and they're in Tony's kitchen. Bruce is exhausted and pale in a baggy Captain America shirt, gratefully sipping coffee. The skin under his eyes is the stained blue-gray of storm clouds, bruised and translucent. Steve's showered, changed outta his uniform into slacks and a button-down. There's a lukewarm mug in his hands, untouched.

There's blood on the tile floor and Miss Foster's shirt.

Tony's leaning awkwardly against the counter. It's a repeat of yesterday, except this time his arm's in a sling and Steve isn't eating leftovers. Or thinking about Tony's mouth, his hips. His firm backside.

Steve willfully refocuses on the matter at hand.

"It's my f- _fault_ , I didn't know, I," Miss Foster sobs. If Thor were here he could hug her, maybe. Quiet her down, offer some comfort. Instead she gets Steve, who's still kinda shy with dames on his best days, and Bruce, who's not in any shape to help someone else right now. Who's looking pale and weak and sick.

So Miss Foster's stuck with Tony.

"It's not your fault, it's Magneto's fault," he's saying irritably. There's a hot flush in Steve's chest, a rustling of residual worry and relief: that Tony's okay, that Tony's talking and drinking coffee and frowning at his arm. That Tony's not a broken red smear on gray pavement.

"But if I hadn't gotten the portal to work," she sniffs, and Tony rolls his eyes. Since he's such a sympathetic guy.

"Okay, I take it back—go ahead and regret one of this century's greatest scientific achievements because your boyfriend got a little banged up." He's got that ugly look again. He's gonna say something awful this time, Steve's sure of it.

"Tony," he means to say, but Bruce beats him to it. Raises bloodshot eyes.

Tony looks at Bruce, lips pursed. His expression doesn't exactly soften, but some of the malice drains away.

"I'm sure Thor will be fine," Steve says to fill the silence. "Look, your portal got him back to Asgard, right?"

Miss Foster hiccups in response. Steve takes this to mean yes.

"When we had Loki in custody, we were able to observe his healing capabilities. They were beyond even Steve's," Tony offers. It's his version of a compromise, if not a concession. He's really an asshole. Steve's palms twitch with the urge to touch, to search with his fingers 'til he can affirm and reaffirm every part of Tony is safe from harm.

She scrubs at her eyes. Her brown hair is loose and messy around her face. Arbitrarily, Steve thinks about dark-haired scientists and helping people. "You're right," Miss Foster says. "I'm sorry, I just. I'm so _worried_."

"Not to beat a dead horse, but I've got _shrapnel_ in my heart. It's made out of _metal_. So I'm pretty happy Thor was here to distract that assclown long enough for Bruce to scare him off." Tony says, jaw tight.

Steve dumps his coffee into the sink and rinses out the mug. Doing so brings him closer to Tony. For damage control. This is his completely logical reasoning. It's got nothing at all to do with the angry set of Tony's shoulders, the angle of his thighs. The swell of his arms in the tight sleeves of his t-shirt.

Fortunately, Fury comes in before any Stark-is-mean-to-girls complications manage to arise. He wipes his hands on his black slacks, then settles them on his hips. He looks weary. "Foster, Agent Hill will direct you to your flight home. Banner, how much blood would you say you lost?"

Miss Foster shuffles over to Hill, who's appeared at Fury's right hand.

"It was nice meeting you, ma'am," Steve says politely, and Miss Foster flashes him a watery smile before Hill leads her away.

Tony says nothing, just leans back with his palms on the edge of the counter and stares at the floor moodily.

"—but if I had to estimate," Bruce is saying, "I don't know, a pint and a half? I feel light-headed, but not like I'm about to die." His mouth quirks faintly, like it's some kinda joke.

Tony must notice, 'cause he goes pale. His face sets again, and he isn't looking at Steve, but he does shift marginally closer. Then he says, "Are we done? Can we be done? I'm definitely done."

Fury's eye twitches over to Tony, his expression unreadable. "Get out of here, Stark."

"Steve, you're coming too. I need to figure out why that prick couldn't brain-control your shield."

"Sir?" Steve asks, glancing at Fury.

"Fine." He turns back to Bruce, clearly finished with the two of them. As Steve follows Tony outta the kitchen, he hears Fury say, "I didn't think the other guy could bleed."

Hears Bruce reply, somber and wondering, "You and me both, Director."

* * *

"You okay?" Steve asks. He tries not to think about Thor's armor turning against him, twisting and burrowing into his flesh. The bright fan of Hulk's blood as shards of metal shredded through his obliques. The way it fell like rain as he plucked Tony outta the sky, the way it coated all of them.

Fact of the matter is, the other guy's blood can kill regular people. Steve's safe 'cause of the serum, and Thor's an alien and maybe a god. Tony, though—that was all luck, that his armor wasn't punctured. That it remained sealed, even with one of the shoulder joints twisted up and in on itself.

Steve's trying very hard not think of everything that could've gone wrong, but didn't. You can't get by on luck forever.

"Gimme that," Tony mutters, manhandling Steve's shield outta his hands. He's followed Tony downstairs.

Tony shuts the door behind them. They're in his workshop.

Then he throws Steve's shield on the floor.

"Stark, what—," Steve begins, outraged, but Tony's shoving him up against a wall with his uninjured arm. Kissing him.

His mouth is hot and wet, searching. Perfect. Steve opens to it automatically, and it's like a light bursting behind his eyes. He can't see past it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't. I didn't mean to," Tony mumbles against Steve's lips, his hand sliding up into Steve's hair. It's still wet from his shower. Tony tightens his fingers into a fist, tugs sharply at it.

"Tony," Steve says, the word hardly more than strained breath through his tight throat. The vague anxiety that's been plaguing him for weeks, the tight knot of unhappiness and despair churning black in his guts, it all falls away. Just like this.

"No, I just." Tony's still talking, still kissing him. Scraping his nails over Steve's scalp, dragging them down over Steve's neck and lower. Palming Steve's waist through his shirt, snaking his hand up underneath to splay over Steve's bare back.

Steve tries to push Tony away. He ends up crushing Tony to his chest.

"I didn't mean to _do this_ ," Tony gasps, "I just meant to, to yell at you or," he breaks away, but he doesn't go far. Just mouths Steve's jaw, nuzzles just below his ear and breathes in. "Meant to give you time, need your space, I can't, I," and then he shuts up 'cause Steve's kissing him again.

But he manages to stop. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done, pulling away from this—this _mess_. Tony, flushed and warm in his arms. Tony with bedroom eyes and tangled hair. Tony who doesn't smell like blood anymore, who smells clean and safe, who's getting married to some dame named after a condiment and who kisses Steve like he _means_ it when he _doesn't_.

"Can I," Tony asks, lips swollen.

_Pepper is my girlfriend._

Steve turns away. Gets some space between them.

_It won't be an issue, Tony._

Steve clears his throat. "You were gonna look at my shield?"

Tony looks confused at first. Then his eyes sharpen like chips of stone. "Right," he says. Steps carefully away, and except for his flushed cheeks and wet mouth, this might never've happened at all.

It's for the best, even as Steve's world slots back into place, heavy and overbearing. Even as that awful feeling blooms in his gut all over again. That sense of loss and detachment. That sense of unbelonging.

It's for the best. Steve's never hated anything half so much.

* * *

When Steve gets home, he goes for a walk. It doesn't help to clear his mind, but a distraction's all he's really looking for right now.

Tony'd explained the shield to him this way: vibranium isn't very good at reacting to things, it's good at neutralizing things. He'd talked about molecules and vibrational distribution. The gist of it seems to be, Magneto's like anyone else on the planet—he's not strong enough to break Steve's shield, just like he's not strong enough to lift Thor's hammer.

It's comforting. It's a constant, and Steve's got few enough of those.

When he climbs the stairs to the front door of his building, it's dark outside. When he goes in, it's dark there, too. Through the gloom, a blue light flashes on his telephone. Steady like a pulse.

He turns on a lamp and checks his messages.

"—asshole, I thought you were staying for dinner, you are a terrible leader and you suck at team-building exercises and fostering good will. This is bad for family morale." Tony's voice is crystal-clear, and he seems to be settling in for a long rant. Steve half-listens as he pokes around his kitchen. It's almost like someone else is home with him, like he isn't alone on a Wednesday evening. Like there's almost more to his life than these blank walls.

"Really, what will the children think if their dad's never home, I can't raise Bruce all by myself and Natasha came in looking like something the NYPD found when they dredged Lake-whatever last year, and I just—"

Steve pauses. Natasha's not meant to be back for another day.

"—staying for science but not for dinner, who does that, it's rude and just, just irresponsible. Call me, Cap." This should be the end of the message, but it's not. There's a soft sound that Steve recognizes as Tony breathing through his nose, impatient and unhappy.

"Take your time if you _need_ to," he says flatly. "But call me, Cap. You've got to call me."

Steve's voicemail rolls over to the standard options, the automated voice enthusiastically and artificially polite. The contrast to Tony's rough tone is jarring.

Steve hesitates. Then he goes over to the machine and deletes the message.

And makes dinner. And sits quietly. And eventually goes to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There are goats. Baby goats with square pupils and tiny goat hooves. Steve's on his knees petting them, fascinated how they keep butting the tiny stumps of their horns into his palms. "The circus?"_
> 
>  
> 
> _"Yep." Clint's wandered over to the horse, Melvin. "Some people just aren't cut out for the regular song and dance of growing up, Cap. Especially if circumstances are such that," he trails off, seemingly distracted by Melvin whuffling into his shoulder._
> 
>  
> 
> _Steve waits. One of the little goats nibbles on the knuckle of his thumb. It's black and brown with bits of dried alfalfa on its back. Steve is utterly charmed._
> 
>  
> 
> _"Anyway, if you're willing and you're young, you can be made into pretty much anything. I eventually—outgrew the circus. Did a few things on my own. Got picked up by SHIELD along the way, and the rest is history."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor updates/corrections as of 2013AUG21.

The city's heavy with fog today when Steve runs. In the oppressive gloom of early morning, streetlights like distant, rubbed-out stars, he's the only man on the planet. He can't see more than a dozen yards in any direction, buildings and cars and trash cans easing into and outta his field of vision like smoke. The small handful of people he encounters are pale and abstracted, ghosts in a world where all the edges have dropped away. They're not real. They hurry on without looking at him, and even after the sun starts to stretch and bleed over the horizon, nothing comes to life.

It brings Steve to the bottom of the ocean, depthless and timeless and alone. Full darkness beneath a distant, watery circle of light that does nothing to dispel the gloom. For a handful of terrible moments, he wonders if he ever left. If he's just been dreaming this whole time.

The thought stays with him longer than it should, heavier than he can bear. Overpowering, enough that he wonders how it can't be true.

Slick with sweat and hollow in the pit of his chest, he fumbles his way into his apartment. There's a jolt of adrenaline twisting anxiously up his spine. There's the unshakable feeling of a gaping hole at his back.

There's the distinct smell of french toast and maple syrup in the air around him.

Steve looks up sharply at the man in his kitchen.

"Helped myself," Barton says over his shoulder. "Hope you don't mind." He shoots a cursory grin at Steve and turns back to the skillet. He's picked out in silhouette from the lamp above the stove, the compact bulk of his torso and bare arms solid and real.

Steve rubs his palm over his face, wipes the sweat from his eyes. He can already taste cinnamon, and his stomach rolls over with sharp interest. "Depends. There any for me?"

"Naturally. Get cleaned up, Cap, I can smell you from here."

Steve laughs, short and relieved. All the darkness drains outta him, and here in this time and place—watching Barton cook is like watching him shoot: precise, efficient, cocky—he feels like he can breathe.

He doesn't know why the agent's here, but it's—unexpectedly nice. Coming home to someone. Sharing a meal. A kindness he never expected. He wonders how he'd've felt if he'd been running _to_ something, instead of away from ghosts. If that sticky black despair in his belly could've been banished sooner, could've never come at all.

After breakfast, Barton collects their plates. Waves Steve off when he tries to take over dishwashing.

"You cooked," Steve points out.

"In addition to breaking and entering," Barton reasons. His hands are quick and efficient, flashing under the water. He's quiet after that, his eyes on his work, and Steve leans back against the counter and kinda wants to ask about Natasha. If she's okay, if he's allowed to call to ask. If they're sorta friends now.

"So Professor X wants to meet with you again," Barton eventually volunteers, drying his hands. "He can't always make it into the city, guy's got a full schedule, but he says you're welcome at the Institute whenever you want."

"Decent of him," Steve says. Barton looks up.

"That's pretty ambiguous, Cap," he says, eyes keen. There are lines cut deep into his brow where they knit together. "But Fury says he'll cut your counseling sessions down to twice monthly if you don't mind making the drive."

Steve looks away, jaw firming. He wonders if it's common knowledge, how he's not—okay. How he's not handling everything as well as he should. He wonders who else knows, or if it's just SHIELD. He wonders if Tony knows.

"Steve," Barton says quietly.

Steve looks up. This close, he can pick out the faint stain of red across Barton's cheeks. There was probably a lotta sun in South America. He tries not to wonder how many people Barton killed.

"Is—how's Miss Romanov?" Steve asks.

"Banged up," he answers, his voice going soft and clipped. He's moving around the kitchen, putting things away. "A few new scars for the collection."

Steve clears his throat. "Scars?"

"She's like a roadmap, Cap, you should see her. It's nuts." He's got this half-smile playing on his lips, and Steve thinks, Huh.

Part of Steve unhappily tries to imagine the condition Natasha must be in, bloodied and damaged. Another part inadvertently pictures her naked. He flushes; Barton raises an eyebrow and smirks.

"So," he says, slipping his shoes back on. "I'm free all morning. Wanna go to the zoo?"

* * *

The zoo doesn't actually open 'til ten. They get there about eight, and Barton sneaks them in through an employee entrance.

Only Steve doesn't realize he's doing it at the time. Truth be told, he's kinda excited about seeing the tigers.

Steve also didn't realize Barton meant, specifically, a _petting zoo_.

"Hello, precious," Barton murmurs, perched on the first slat of a rickety wood fence. He's got the head of a donkey cradled in his hands. The sign says her name's Martha.

"Agent—," Steve begins, but Barton cuts him off.

"Tasha said you'd pull that crap. We have names, man. Use 'em." His face is open enough that his words don't sting. He has dimples. His fingers move in soothing circles around Martha's ears, and bent forward half-into her pen, he looks like a misbehaving kid. With very strong arms.

"Clint, then," Steve tries, and earns a clear look of approval. "So how'd you and—Natasha—meet?"

"Classified," Clint says. He hops down off the fence. "Mostly classified, anyway. She's allowed to talk about it; I'm not."

"Can you talk about," Steve pauses. He's not sure how to ask how SHIELD picks up a sniper who doesn't use a gun, puts him on an elite team to protect Earth from space aliens. "How you got into this line of work?"

"Oh, sure. When I was a kid I ran away and joined the circus."

There are goats. Baby goats with square pupils and tiny goat hooves. Steve's on his knees petting them, fascinated how they keep butting the tiny stumps of their horns into his palms. "The circus?"

"Yep." Clint's wandered over to the horse, Melvin. "Some people just aren't cut out for the regular song and dance of growing up, Cap. Especially if circumstances are such that," he trails off, seemingly distracted by Melvin whuffling into his shoulder.

Steve waits. One of the little goats nibbles on the knuckle of his thumb. It's black and brown with bits of dried alfalfa on its back. Steve is utterly charmed.

"Anyway, if you're willing and you're young, you can be made into pretty much anything. I eventually—outgrew the circus. Did a few things on my own. Got picked up by SHIELD along the way, and the rest is history."

"What was it like?" Steve asks, straightening. There's a twinge in his chest, looking at Clint and his careless affection toward the animals. It's not something Steve would've pegged. He feels it's somehow vital, though.

"Had its good parts," Clint says, implying there were maybe some awful parts. "I got to practice archery until I was better than anyone alive, so there's that."

He doesn't say it with ego, like Tony would've. It's just another fact about Clint, like the color of his eyes or the shape of his forearms. Steve's not sure what to do with that kinda honesty, the kind that supersedes modesty.

"But I did learn a couple things," Clint says after a while, "before I left." He wanders back over to Steve, brushing off his hands. "We had elephants, zebras, lions. Horses for the contortionist act, a couple of honest-to-god dancing bears." He smiles fondly. "Animals aren't like people, Steve. They aren't malicious. You treat them okay, they're always happy to see you."

There's a llama craning its head toward Clint, snuffling for food. Steve knows it's a llama 'cause that's what the sign says, under _Mildred_. Clint smiles and scratches her gently under the chin. "They don't take sides when everything goes to shit."

Steve nods, trying to follow, but all he can think about is an old drawing of a trained monkey on lined paper. Feeling trapped, on display; ultimately useless.

"Nat used to take me to pet stores after missions that went south," he continues, eyes crinkled at the edges. He looks away from the llama, up at Steve. "To play with the puppies."

Steve watches, mouth dry. Thinks how Bucky used to drag him around town after his parents died, get him outside as often as he could. Not for the first time, he tries to reconcile how an assassin can be a decent sorta person.

Clint stretches his arms above his head, scanning the area. His mouth quirks. "The most important thing, though, living in a circus—," he looks over at Steve, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You throw a bunch of freak acts together, expect them to put on a show. What d'you get?"

"What?" Steve asks helplessly.

"A family," Clint grins. "Regardless of what comes after."

That's about when Security spot them.

* * *

Steve keeps to himself for the next few days. In his spare bedroom, over a fresh drop cloth, he sets up an easel and tentatively starts painting. He uses a lotta water at first, thin washes and small concentrations of pigment. Lets them dry, experiments with different levels of opacity and studies how the colors bleed together, or how they don't. It's relaxing, it doesn't have to mean anything, and it's almost pretty. It's a nice way to kill time.

Now that Steve only needs about four hours of sleep at night, he's hard-pressed to fill the silence.

He doesn't call Tony back, 'cause he doesn't know what to say. He does call Natasha, but her voicemail picks up. Disapprovingly, he wonders if she's already on another mission. If she's hurt somewhere, if she's still hurt from before.

Around lunchtime on Sunday, he calls Fury about Professor Xavier.

"You're penciled in for a week from tomorrow, seven a.m. sharp." He says after a few minutes. "He can manage the second and fourth Monday of every month, if you're available." As if Steve's got anything else to do with his time other than wait around 'til someone needs him.

"Thank you, sir." Steve says, picking at a spot of red paint on his palm.

"How you holding up, Captain?" Fury says after a beat, and it's not that he sounds hesitant. Just, he probably feels obligated to ask, but is ultimately uninterested in the answer.

"Fine," Steve says, short and to the point 'cause he's not in the habit of wasting someone's time.

"Good, good. Seeing more of the city? Expanding your horizons?"

"...Sir?"

There's the sound of a phone ringing in the background, and what's probably Maria Hill's voice snapping a sharp command. "I've got to take this, Rogers. Keep me posted on your progress."

It's right around the time they hang up that Steve realizes: Natasha probably got Bruce to call him, to invite him over. Clint was probably under orders, too.

So he isn't surprised when, later that night, Tony knocks on his door.

Operation: Socialize Steve Rogers. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. If he wanted to make friends, he'd damn well go out and make them.

"You don't call, you don't write," Tony says as he shoves his way into Steve's apartment. "You don't tell funny anecdotes about that time you broke into a petting zoo with fucking Legolas—"

At Steve's blank, irritated look he pauses and rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine, with fucking _William Tell_ , who then had to tranquilize three security guards—"

Steve'd felt bad about that.

"And you don't even invite _me_." Tony looks around at Steve's apartment, eyebrows raised. "This place is depressing. You should spend maybe zero percent of your time here whenever you can help it." He wanders into the living room, skating his fingertips over the coffee table, tapping the casing of the old radio in the corner. A well-dressed and complicated tornado of scrutiny who keeps _touching_ things.

"Can I help you, Tony?" Steve asks shortly, crossing his arms.

Tony leans down to study a silver picture frame that's probably older than Stark Industries. It's small and square, polished to a high gleam. Not a lick of tarnish anywhere on it. The matte window is a perfect circle, cleanly hiding edges worn ragged in the cradle of a pocket watch. Once upon a time.

"Yeah," he answers, distracted. "You can stop living here. You can live somewhere else instead. Oh, you have a peace lily." It's on the dining room table. He's looking at it speculatively, like a goddamn plant means anything at all in the world.

"There is nothing wrong with my apartment."

Tony looks at him blankly, eyebrows raised. "It killed my buzz just walking in here, Cap."

"Buzz," Steve starts, adamantly refusing to follow the tailored curve of Tony's slacks, the supple shape of his thighs. "Tony, have you been drinking?"

"Are you seriously asking me that? On a Sunday night?" He settles onto the couch, arms spread over the cushion tops. Tilts his head back, sags bonelessly like he's trying it on for size. "I feel like no one lives here. There's no mess at all. You don't even have a TV." It's like the guy doesn't even need to pause for breath, and Steve can feel offense roll over hot in his head, start to churn into true anger. "You should pack an overnight bag. Like right now. Come home with me before I kill myself."

It's not 'til he feels his nails digging into his palms that Steve realizes he's clenching his fists. "Get outta here, Tony," he bites out. He's done with this shit.

Tony looks up, lips in a fine line, eyes hard. "Oh, what, and now you're mad at me for no reason whatsoever."

"You barge in here," Steve snaps, "insult my home with every damn word comes outta your damn mouth. And you wonder why I'm mad?"

Tony stands up, looks conflicted and angry and confused. "I'll just," he starts, and Steve jerks his thumb toward the door.

"Please," Steve says. Like it's a command.

The color drains from Tony's face. Wordlessly, he goes.

* * *

Steve keeps to himself after that, spending long, solitary hours at the gym or working on his painting. On Wednesday, he goes to that same cafe Natasha introduced him to. He feels outta place without her company.

He thoroughly cleans the apartment, though there's not much needs doing. Steve's pretty regular with upkeep. He takes care of his things.

He spends some time on the internet looking at interior design websites. Just to see.

No one calls, no one drops by unexpectedly. It's almost a relief, except when Steve wonders, uneasily, how the others are doing. If everyone's okay.

He sleeps in short, dreamless bursts. Wakes up every morning feeling like he's missing something.

The next Monday, Steve leaves at five-thirty a.m. for Westchester. The interstate's pretty light on traffic, outbound, and his bike handles like a dream. The wind's cool on his face, slips through his hair like kind fingers. It's nothing like riding during the war. It's relaxing, refreshing. No detritus from bombs, no swathes of road fallen into disrepair. He doesn't have to focus on anything.

There's a place between the lightening sky and the clean blur of asphalt where he doesn't have to think about Bruce, trapped with the other guy 'til he dies, hating himself for it. About how Steve hasn't heard anything about Thor's condition yet, if the guy's even okay. How Natasha might be injured and bleeding out someplace; how Clint's probably murdering someone from a distance in a faraway city, with the same hands that curled lovingly over the lonely heads of horses.

He pulls up to the mansion, parks his bike, and doesn't have to think about bullshit fights with Tony when all Steve wants is to get along, to stop wanting things he can't have. To strike a medium between being at Tony's throat and being at his feet. Maybe resist the urge to ruin everything by being in his arms.

End of the day, Steve's starting to not like himself much.

He meets with Charles in the study. Immediately, it's as though a shadow lifts from his mind.

But then he gets a good look at the man.

"Steven," Charles says lightly. "So nice to see you again."

Steve wants to say something in kind. Instead he blurts out, "You feeling okay, sir?"

Charles raises his eyebrows. He looks awful—rough, exhausted. Like he hasn't slept, like he's aged five years. His hands rest on his knees, loose and open, like he's willing himself to keep 'em from knotting together. After spending some time with Bruce, Steve recognizes this habit.

"Thank you for your concern," Charles says, taking a sip from whatever's in the glass on his desk. "But I assure you, I am fine."

Steve doesn't say anything, but he does look away. The room has huge windows opening to a view of lush green grass that stretches for miles. There are small, flowering trees just outside.

"How do you feel about gardening, Steven?"

Steve thinks about it. He wore durable jeans since he had the motorcycle out today, and he's got on a plain t-shirt beneath his button-down. "Let's find out," he says.

Two hours later, Steve decides he loves gardening.

The work's not particularly difficult, but it's monotonous. Charles gives him an untilled patch of land and talks him through preparing the soil, what seeds to plant and where. Then there's fertilizer, and general instructions for pruning and weeding when the time comes. He gets into a rhythm, gets dirt under his nails and grass stains on his knees. Everything smells like earth.

Bucky's parents had had a victory garden, but Steve's mother never did. It's good. Working with his hands is good.

By the time Steve realizes they haven't had a single conversation about the ice, or _Being_ _Captain America_ , or how lost he is in this big, new world, Charles is saying, "It was lovely of you to come, Steven. I hope to see you again in a couple of weeks."

Then Charles shakes his hand. On the ride home, Steve feels relaxed and accomplished. He feels useful, valued. The sun's warm on his head and the back of his neck, and he doesn't feel lonely at all.

* * *

When he gets home, he calls Tony. Figures it's probably time.

"Shit, shit, sorry, hang on a minute, Cap."

Steve tries not to get irritated all over again. There's some noise in the background, the heavy whirr and metallic thud of mechanized parts, and Tony saying, "Yeah, there. No, a little— _fuck_ , Dummy, there is no _possible way_ you're mine, I blame poor parenting, JARVIS this is on you—"

Steve sighs and counts to five.

"—regret to inform you, Sir, that Dummy's functional behavior protocols are the direct result of your fondness for grain alcohol," is the distant reply.

"Don't pull that substance-abuse crap on me, Jay, we've already been down that—"

"This a bad time?" Steve finally asks, and he twists his voice into something curt. Latches on to whatever he can to drown out the affection he feels, hot in his ribs, at the sound of Tony in the place he loves best. Steve's still supposed to be mad at him, 'cause he's pushy and rude and insulting. 'Cause you can't let people get away with any of those things or they'll never turn out decent.

It's always upside-down with this man, Steve thinks. How I feel, how he feels. How we don't fit together 'til we do.

"No no no," Tony assures. "Just had to take an active hand in a routine upgrade since my children are functionally retarded. Wanna go see _Wicked_ with me?"

"What," Steve begins, baffled.

"It happens with the kids when you drink too much," Tony explains. "Especially during the developmental stages, since—"

At a loss, Steve asks, "What's _Wicked_?"

There's a faint pause. Then Tony says, cautiously, "You, ah. You liked _Wizard of Oz_ , right? It's like that. It's a musical."

Steve thinks about flying monkeys. Then he thinks about ruby slippers that can take you home, just 'cause you wish for it hard enough.

"Okay," he says.

"Good. Great!" Tony sounds relieved. There's a moment of silence, workshop background noise. Steve waits it out. Eventually Tony says, "Last week. It occurs to me that I may have gone about things the wrong way." He doesn't sound repentant, but there's a thread of anxiety in his voice. "So: would you like to come over and watch a movie with me and Bruce some time? Standing offer. Bruce likes to cook, so I can guarantee both dinner and breakfast. We can have a slumber party."

Steve washes the soil from his hands. He's holding the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder, the way he's seen people do countless times. It takes a minute to get the hang of.

Then he thinks about what Tony's saying.

"Jesus christ," Steve mutters, blowing air outta his mouth in a long, low breath as understanding finally hits. "All that song and dance for—god _damn_. All you had to do was ask, Tony."

"That a yes?" His voice is hesitant. There's a faint tapping sound like nervous fingers on a countertop.

Helplessly, Steve thinks, Yes. What Steve says is, "I'll keep it in mind."

"Do that," Tony says earnestly. Tap, tap, tap. Clink, clink, clink. Steve wonders what he's even working on.

After another silence, Steve says, "All right, then. Goodbye."

"Wait, Steve," Tony says in a rush. "Are we okay? I really need to," he trails off. Clears his throat. "I just feel like it's been rough between us lately and. I'd really, really like it not to be, so if you could tell me what I did—I'm not the best at, at figuring that out—"

"For future reference," Steve replies, "telling me how awful my home is won't make me wanna visit yours. Opposite, actually."

Tony swallows. Steve can hear it. Thinks about the slow ride of his adam's apple, the stretch of his neck when his head's thrown back.

"Sorta makes you an asshole," is all he says.

"Noted," Tony replies tersely.

* * *

Three days later, Steve finds himself in Tony's living room in front of a huge television set. The movie they're supposed to be watching has to do with ghosts and vacuums, far as he can tell. But they're not really watching it.

What they're really doing is arguing.

"Do you have to be a hardass about _every goddamn thing_ , Rogers?" Tony's not exactly shouting, but he's raised his voice by degrees.

"For chrissake, Stark, he's not an _animal_ —"

"He's not in a _cage_ ," Tony hisses. He's got an ugly look in his eyes, one Steve recognizes: it means Tony's about to go for his throat. It means, _Everything special about you came out of a bottle_.

Except, for whatever reason, what Tony actually does is grab Steve's wrist, lean close like he's telling a secret. "Look, it's only a temporary solution. I know it's not ideal, but it's all we have right now."

From the couch, Bruce says, "I'm right here, guys." He sounds tired, if not especially annoyed.

The problem's that, when Steve got here, he found Bruce naked in the kitchen. Steve didn't take issue with the nudity, and he definitely doesn't take issue with Bruce. But he draws the line at keeping somebody doped up for convenience's sake.

"We're working on something else," Tony assures him, guiding him back to the loveseat by his elbow. "I promise we are." He leans down again and says, quieter, "No one should carry that much stress around. No one should be afraid in their own damn home." He turns his head, and his cheek brushes Steve's temple. "He can be himself like this. Okay?"

"Okay," Steve admits. He slowly lets go his outrage: Tony's right. Steve's not happy about it, but Tony's probably right.

"Glad that's settled," Bruce snorts. "Can we get back to the part where I've never actually seen _Ghostbusters_?"

"Endeavoring to remedy, endeavoring to remedy," Tony laughs, a soft sharp sound. He restarts the movie.

Steve, as a rule, has trouble falling asleep. His body doesn't need much to start with, and even after a full, physically exhausting day, it's hard for him to find peace enough for rest. So he's not sure how it happens here, of all places.

But, next thing he knows, he's waking up to the sound of hushed voices.

"—said she'd be home in an hour or so, but she didn't mention Clint."

"They should've both been in Boston. It was a joint mission. Fury probably knows I hack their SHIELD files, but I can't see why he'd bother to plant false information."

There's a hand in Steve's hair, and someone sitting on the arm of the loveseat where Steve's been napping.

"Would she tell us," this is Bruce's voice, "if something happened to him?"

"I don't know," Tony says quietly. "Eventually. We might hear it from Fury first." Bruce is silent after that.

Steve doesn't wanna wake up, doesn't wanna know what they're talking about or if anyone's hurt. Tony's fingers move in soothing patterns through his hair, dip down over his neck, and for a moment Steve lets himself pretend.

Then he carefully sits up. Tony keeps his palm curled over Steve's shoulder, thumb resting against Steve's pulse. He says, "Rise and shine, Cap."

"How long was I out?" Steve asks, self-consciously straightening his t-shirt where it's rucked up around his waist. Tony watches with interest. In the low light of the living room, his eyes catch warm and gold.

"Half the movie," Bruce says around a yawn. "Maybe an extra fifteen minutes after the credits." He's leaning back into the couch, boneless and relaxed. His lashes are dark against his cheeks, and by the time they flutter open, Tony's hand has fallen away. Steve's suddenly colder for the loss of it.

He's about to say something like, Thanks for having me over. He's about to go home to his empty apartment, 'cause it's the right thing to do. 'Cause Steve's not a bad person, and if Tony can't keep his damn hands to himself, Steve's gotta know when to leave.

It's not any consolation, realizing Tony's as attracted to Steve's stupid body as Steve is to Tony. How Tony doesn't seem to care about who gets hurt, pursuing Steve at all.

So he means to leave. He really, truly does. But then his stomach growls, and instead he says, "Didn't someone promise me supper?"

Tony smiles, opens his mouth for some kinda snide reply that hopefully involves actual nourishment. But he doesn't get the chance.

"If you wait around all day for _him_ to feed you," an entirely new voice interrupts, "I'm afraid you'll probably go hungry."

Steve cranes his head around as Tony slides off the arm of the loveseat. Then Tony's taking a gorgeous redhead in his arms, willowy and smartly dressed. Steve's chest aches. They cut a perfect form.

"Hi, Tony," she says, to her boyfriend that she _lives with_. She's got a smile that could stop traffic. Steve can't look away from them.

"You're home early," Tony says, hands on her small waist. He looks genuinely happy to see her, but it fades somewhat. "Does that, ah. Is that a no on the Detroit enterprise?"

"It's not a yes," she says, sympathetic but brusque.

Tony's face falls, but he gestures broadly over at Steve. "That's Captain America, by the way. In my living room."

"I can see that," Pepper says, eyes shining. "Did you know? The Incredible Hulk's on your couch."

"It appears to be so," Bruce murmurs distantly.

"I just attract these amazing and talented individuals," Tony preens. "They can't get enough of me, that's why everyone has to come live in my super tower."

"Mmhmm." Miss Potts appears well-practiced at humoring him. Then she looks at Steve. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers."

"Ma'am," he greets, standing outta old habit. All over again, that too-big feeling settles on his shoulders like a weight. She offers her hand, so he takes it. "Pleasure's all mine."

Her soft, small fingers. Her hair glittering in the light like a new penny. The faint hint of freckles beneath her flawless makeup, and her crisp white blouse. The narrow flare of her hips beneath a black skirt.

She's breathtaking.

"What were you doing in Detroit?" Steve asks, on the off-chance it'll distract him from the beautiful woman who's engaged to the man Steve's—to the man he—

"I'm thinking about buying it," Tony explains.

"What?" Steve sputters. "Buying—Tony, that's a _city_ , that's—"

"It's a ghost town," Pepper says to Steve. "Buildings abandoned and left to rot, or warehouses that residents burn down for sport. It has the highest crime rate in the States." She looks apologetic. "There have been talks of rebuilding, but right now no one has the time or the money to take it on as a public service project."

Tony deflates. "You don't sound terribly optimistic."

"It was a nice thought, Tony," Pepper says, and Steve wonders if she notices how his jaw goes tight. "But you can't build a Stark Tower in Detroit without personally overseeing the development. The politicians are dead in the water, the police force is impossibly outnumbered, and you can't expect your employees to brave a warzone just to go to work."

"Iron Man—," Tony says, and something crumples in Pepper's face.

Steve sorta wishes he were anywhere else.

"Iron Man is an option," she admits steadily. "But Tony Stark is in New York building Avengers Tower." She touches Tony's hand. "On the bright side, since the trip was cut short, we'll be able to spend some time together before your conference in LA."

Steve thinks about Detroit. Fixing things that are intrinsically beyond all repair. He's Captain America, after all. He could—

"—work to do in the lab, but maybe we can go that restaurant you like in Manhattan," Tony pauses, uneasy. Pepper looks bleak.

Again, Steve thinks about going home. Thinks it could be a nice evening, getting some supper and googling Detroit. Maybe make a few phone calls in the morning. He wonders if it'd be impolite to sneak out the door while Pepper and Tony are talking unhappily at each other.

Then Bruce stretches and yawns mightily. He shambles over to the three of them.

"Hi, Bruce," Pepper says, her face softening. Then she looks a bit sly. "I see we've been partaking again."

Bruce scrubs a hand through his hair. "Hi, Pepper. Did you know? Incorporeal assimilation via suction is a fascinating field of study. I'm still trying to internalize the full spectrum of practical application."

"Indeed," Pepper says fondly. "To which blend were you subjected today?"

"My dear," Bruce murmurs patiently, "that is outside the realms of this conversation."

"But what is not outside the realms of this conversation," Tony says, "is dinner."

Pepper purses her lips and turns back to Tony. "So order take-out."

"You know I hate to interact with the little people," Tony chides.

"You know I just got off a plane from Detroit," Pepper says pointedly, "after three days of thorough meetings where I had to explain, carefully and repeatedly, that you want buy a _city_."

"I thought I'd be able to get Bruce to cook." Tony admits. "He likes to."

"I'm quite content to pass the honor on to someone else tonight," Bruce mentions. "Also, you didn't order groceries this week."

Pepper sighs. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Miss Potts," JARVIS says promptly.

"Can you place an order with—well, whatever takeout we ordered last time," she starts, then shoots a contemplative glance at Steve. "Except twice as much."

"At once, Miss Potts," JARVIS says warmly. "And would you also like for me to place your weekly grocery order?"

"Please and thank you," she replies sweetly.

Tony wrinkles his nose. "Why does my AI like you better than me?"

"Oh, I don't know," Pepper touches her index finger to her cheek and looks heavenward. "Must be because I'm prettier than you are."

"I seem to have been programmed with a peculiar affinity for redheads," JARVIS supplies.

"Natasha's a redhead," Bruce points out.

"It is not quite the same," JARVIS says in a very dry way, "without the freckles."

Pepper blushes.

* * *

Food safely in transit, Tony spends the next thirty-five to forty minutes talking animatedly about hammers and shields. He's got his elbows on the kitchen table, his fingers pulling clean, perfect shapes outta the air and fitting them together. He uses the word _penetrate_ a lot, which gets kinda creative since Thor's hammer didn't actually break Steve's shield. Or crack it. Or really do much more than scuff the paint.

Eventually Bruce says, "Can it with the euphemisms, he doesn't get it," and looks apologetically at Steve.

"That's what makes it so _funny_." With a flick of his wrist, Tony makes the images pause their back-and-forth hammer-pounding-shield animation.

"Remember that time," Bruce says serenely, "when you tricked me into living with you? Specifically the part where you neglected to inform me of the full-time babysitting position I'd be obligated to take on. The one where the baby is actually an adult billionaire."

"It doesn't even make sense," Steve mutters, forehead wrinkling. He studies the still shapes. "The hammer, yeah, maybe. But it's not like there's a hole in my shield."

Bruce and Tony go quiet and look at him. Bruce eventually takes pity. "It's not really about the imagery," he says. "'Banging' and 'pounding' are both slang for 'intercourse.' Also, Tony is woefully juvenile."

"What—your buzz wear off already, bubbletoes?" Tony asks lightly, scrolling through graphs and equations in the empty air.

"Nah, whatever you've done this time around is good," Bruce says, and Steve realizes they aren't talking about sex any more. "I'd say we can stick with it."

"Noted," Tony says, tucking his visual technology back into his tablet. Every single time, Steve thinks it looks like magic. "Still sorry about the other day."

"No harm, no foul," Bruce says, smiling crookedly.

Tony looks hesitantly at Steve.

"What?" Steve asks warily, slouching a bit in his chair.

"Are you still—?"

"Forgive the intrusion, Sir, but Agent Romanov has returned. I would sincerely recommend greeting her with a first-aid kit." JARVIS says.

Steve's still thinking about that, about robots and sincerity, right up 'til he actually sees Natasha.

This is how she comes to them: in her ragged SHIELD blacks with messy, filthy hair. Mud on her hands and her scuffed face. A bloody lip and a cut above her brow.

She holds herself awkwardly like she's injured, and doesn't seem to've slept or bathed in days.

Tony's face is pale. "Natasha," he says, reaching for her, and she hisses when he touches her waist.

'Cause, while she's bleeding all over from smaller cuts, there's one particularly alarming patch of darkness high on her rib cage. She's pressing a rust-colored rag against it. Once, it may've been white. Tony looks utterly lost.

Bruce touches Tony's shoulder and offers Natasha his hand. She takes it. "Thor's back in town," she says, teeth tight together as Bruce pulls gently at the blood-soaked rag, tries to get a feel for the damage. "He brought Loki."

"What?" Steve's head snaps up. He's hung back during this, unsure what to do with his hands if someone's hurt, but always ready for a fight.

"Great, that's really phenomenal news and I can't wait to see those guys." Tony says, following Natasha as Bruce leads her to one of the master bathrooms. Steve trails behind, useless and worried. "I'm glad that Thor's recovered from his nasty scrape with Magneto and that he's bringing his special snowflake nutjob brother home with him. Now that that's out of the way—can we get to the part where _what the hell happened to you_?"

"Classified," Natasha replies dryly, and Steve presses his lips into a thin line.

"How come you're not in a hospital?" He asks, trying to keep the anger outta his voice. He doesn't do the best job.

Expressionless, Natasha shrugs. Then she winces. "Fury wants me here for the interrogation."

"Who gives a shit what—," abruptly, Tony turns around. Steve looks past him and sees that Natasha's got her suit unzipped. Her bra's soaked through with blood, which is probably why Bruce is taking it off.

Steve turns away, too, red in the face.

"—wait, what do you mean, interrogation?" Tony's definition of 'privacy' apparently doesn't extend to actually leaving the room. "Who's being interrogated? Are they being interrogated _here_?"

"Stark, you know I hate repeating myself." Her voice sounds thick; there's the sound of ripping fabric, and then a quiet sigh.

"You're fine, you're good, I'm going to get this out," Bruce murmurs quietly.

"Why does Fury want Loki at my house! He already broke my tower," Tony complains.

"Bruce is here," Steve points out. He wonders if being able to follow Fury's logic is something he oughta be concerned about.

"Thor's still on our side, right?" Tony asks wearily, leaning into Steve a bit. They're roughly shoulder-to-shoulder. Tony's got his arms crossed, cupping his elbows tightly with white fingers.

"As far as we know," Natasha says. "Fury only told me to be here and report back to him. _Ow_."

"Sorry, sorry," Bruce says, and something soft drops into the garbage can.

"He wants you here bad enough that he didn't let you get patched up first," Steve says, jaw working. He's gonna have words with Fury. He's really starting to take issue with not knowing where his goddamn teammates are, if they're _safe_.

"I'm assuming this has to do with Asgardian justice," Bruce mentions. "They were gone almost two months. If Loki hasn't been executed yet, he likely isn't going to be."

Steve thinks about Loki, outta his mind and starving for power and recognition. Thinks about Loki somber and folded in on himself. Thinks about Thor, and how he'd do anything for his brother.

"Don't think that was ever really on the table," Steve says. He can see Tony looking at him outta the corner of his eye.

"Fury instructed Thor to escort Loki here. Fury instructed me to be present at the time he makes his case, and to report my observations and any additional information I collect," Natasha tells them. "I'm officially informing Bruce of his position as backup. Stark, Cap, ask whatever questions you want—but under no circumstances are you to provoke either of them."

There's the sound of the tap going on and off. "That should do it. If you're going to shower, just be careful where I butterflied some of your cuts. You probably don't want me stitching you up," he adds ruefully.

"Natasha," Tony asks then. He's very still. "Where's Barton?"

"If you'll excuse me," she says, her cold voice betraying nothing, "I'm going to take a shower."

* * *

"Natasha never mentions Coulson," Steve says. Bruce has gone to his room to put his supplies away, and Pepper's in her office. "Neither does Clint."

"Wasn't he their handler or something?" Tony asks, banging around in the kitchen. Opening drawers or looking in the fridge, fiddling with things on the counter. "He seemed pretty loyal to Fury. Right-hand man and all that. And after that heart-to-heart we got," Tony adds, sarcastic and bitter.

Steve touches his shoulder, gently tugs him away from appliances and tableware and stills his restless hands. "I don't know," he says. "I got the impression Natasha and Coulson knew each other pretty well. Enough to talk about their hobbies, anyway," he mutters, thinking about those damned Captain America cards. The ones he never signed, near-mint with slight foxing around the edges. Smeared with blood.

"I think Barton was in New Mexico with him when Thor—happened," Tony says. "Did you know? He brought me in when they were dealing with General Ross." He scratches his nose. "Even paid my exorbitant consulting fee."

Steve looks up from where Tony's drumming his fingers against his thigh. "That the guy who worked with Bruce? Before?"

"Yeah," Tony says. "I guess he has another monster, real piece of work. Not at all nice like ours." He pauses. "Fury had orders to get him on the team instead of the Hulk. So Coulson sent me to royally piss off General Douchebag, that way Fury wouldn't be disobeying a direct order when Ross inevitably refused."

Steve doesn't say anything. Eventually Tony asks, voice steady and carefully opaque, "If you knew someone was doing something stupid, and someone else ended up getting hurt. Was it your fault? For not doing more to stop them at the time?"

Tread carefully, Rogers, Steve thinks. He's not sure what Tony's actually talking about here. At length he says, "I think people make their own decisions, Tony."

"The government's been fucking with that serum of yours for decades," he sighs. "It doesn't _work_. They keep fucking with it and it keeps not working." He shifts slightly, and Steve suddenly realizes how close they are, alone and crowded together against a corner cabinet. "You're the only one who made it, Steve."

"I'm just," Steve says, taking a half-step back and trying to find something, anything to pull himself outta this mess. Whatever else could be said of Tony, he's got a streak of guilt in him a mile long. He'd have to, to put a nuke through a portal and come out the other end of space. To wear a suit of armor and save people instead of manufacturing weapons, collecting a paycheck to kill them.

Steve knows about guilt. He wants to take Tony's palms and kiss them. Slide his hands over that tight body, work out the tension 'til he's loose and sweet and warm beneath Steve's hands.

The doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Steve says, disappointed and relieved and desperately lonely. "Probably supper."

It's not supper. It's Thor and Loki.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Look," Tony snaps, "I don't know if you've noticed? But I'm getting some pretty fucked up signals here, Cap. So I'd appreciate a conversation about this." He clears his throat. "Us."_
> 
>  
> 
> _"There's nothing to talk about," Steve tells him. He hasn't forgotten. It was over lunch at an outdoor cafe, and it was sunny, and Steve had said it wouldn't be an issue._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor updates/corrections as of 2013AUG21.

The overcast daylight filters in around them, catching on the deep, bold colors of their clothing. Thor's armor gleams bright and pristine, as sharp as a bit of white paint picking out the highlights in a storm-gray sea. Steve's glad to see him whole.

Face pale against the glossy black of his hair, Loki's not half the hungry shadow he was last time they met.

"Well," Tony says, a reassuring presence at Steve's back. His eyes are unreadable as he takes them in. "Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

They gather in the dining room. Tony fidgets restlessly in his chair, slouching and taking up as much space as he possibly can. He's watching Loki carefully from under his eyelashes. When Steve sees the Iron Man bracelets, his fingers itch for his shield.

Loki's hunched forward with his hands flat in front of him, and Thor keeps glancing at him edgewise. Like he's maybe afraid his brother'll disappear. His body language is almost the full opposite of Tony's, tight and restricted, too big for the space he's been given. It's something Steve can empathize with.

When Natasha drifts in, wordless and soundless, Steve only notices 'cause Loki looks up. Her hair's wet, brushed back from her carefully neutral face. The fluffy yellow robe she's wearing doesn't do a damn thing to lessen her air of menace.

"Good to see everybody," Tony mentions lightly, careless and irreverent of the tension in the room. But it seems to break the ice some.

"My heart is glad that you are well," Thor says earnestly, learning forward. "You fought valiantly against the mind-forger."

By the time Steve's internal dialogue catches up, Tony's saying, "Same here, big guy. We were pretty worried for a minute there."

"It was merely a flesh wound," Thor scoffs, easy and proud. "We are well-constructed on Asgard." But Steve notices the tightness around Loki's eyes, the way they flash over Thor's chest and abdomen like he remembers seeing his brother in pieces.

Something deep and inky and dark curls inside Steve, spreads and stains everything it touches. He carefully turns his mind from the ghost remnants of Bucky falling to his death, from the last time he saw Howard's face. He tucks away Peggy's voice and the sharp static of the radio cutting out, even though it never really leaves him.

Tony's peeking surreptitiously into the hall, and Steve wonders where Bruce is. Then he realizes Tony's probably worried most about Pepper walking in on a volatile situation. He's pretty sure she's still upstairs in her office, though: a princess in a tower, surrounded by knights but inches from the dragon.

Steve feels a pang and leans slightly away from Tony, gets some space to himself. It doesn't help. Nothing helps.

"Right, well," Tony says, sitting up just a bit straighter. "I can see that. In fact, one might make the observation that Loki doesn't appear to have been punished at all." His voice is totally colorless, but the way the fingers of his left hand skim over the bracelet on his right wrist doesn't escape Steve.

"He was imprisoned for long weeks while our father deliberated on his fate," Thor begins solemnly. Then he explains Odin's express commands, and Tony goes tense at Steve's side.

Natasha stays deathly quiet, her arms crossed over her narrow ribs.

The way Thor's sitting—well. Steve knows about shields. He knows the exact curve of Thor's spine, how you can only protect something the best way you know. Steve thinks, What choice do we have?

"So let me get this straight," someone says, and Natasha jerks suddenly toward the doorway. Something hot and angry flashes in her eyes as Clint steps outta the hall.

"I left you in _medical restraints_ ," she hisses. Clint ignores her. He's not roughed up like she was earlier, and he's not wearing his SHIELD blacks. But there's a gauze pad on his left eye, white bandages wrapped around his head. Not a hint of tenderness in the steely lines of his hands. Steve wonders where he puts it, his humanity. If it's a thing he's learned to turn off.

"Loki's punishment for his crimes," Clint says steadily, "is to help you help us protect Earth?"

"I will defend your planet to my final breath," Thor says soberly. "Loki has many trespasses for which to answer, but he is possessed also of great power and high cunning. The lives he may yet save—"

"Don't mean a damn thing against what he's done." Clint cuts a silhouette Steve doesn't recognize, the edges blocky and hard and cast all wrong. Complicated and dangerous. Incongruously, Natasha's face has gone thoughtful.

Thor looks desperately unhappy, but Loki's voice is soft. "No. But it does not have to."

All eyes fix on him.

"I am not here for atonement, Agent Barton. That is not a thing I could hope to achieve in this world." He looks up from the table, meets Clint's visible eye. "But is it not more favorable that a life be spared, even by the workings of my own hand, if the alternative is another life lost?"

"Unless you decide to go on a killing spree—oh, wait." Natasha's voice is chilly and measured. "I don't know how we could possibly trust you, but I can accept your argument in theory. I would certainly prefer to fight beside you instead of against you."

Clint looks at her, stunned, but Thor says hastily, "I will take full responsibility for his future actions."

"And if it means putting him down?" Clint asks, taut as a strung arrow. Hundreds of pounds of pressure on one thin line. Steve can't begin to fathom how it must be, facing someone after he's—rummaged around in your mind. Picked and chosen and rearranged, defiled every special piece of you.

Clint doesn't even blink.

"It will not come to that," Thor says heavily, face clouding. With a faint, sad heat in his chest, Steve wonders if Thor's ever given up on anyone in his whole life. If it's something he's capable of: choosing not to forgive.

"But _if it did_ ," Natasha presses, and Thor stares at them helplessly.

"Yes," Loki answers. He doesn't look at his brother. "If it came to that, Thor would—as you say—put me down."

Tony's been listening intently, oddly quiet, and Steve's eyes catch on the edges of his elbows, the curl of his strong, calloused hands. The faint blue glow beneath his gray t-shirt, a constant reminder of his frailty and his strength.

"Speaking of trust issues," Tony volunteers cheerfully, "What exactly has changed here?" He's finally got his body language reined in, solid and unmoving. The sudden weight of his eyes sets off something deep in Steve's gut, even though it's not directed at him.

"Odin-Allfather—," Thor starts again, but Tony shakes his head.

"I'm picking up what you're putting down," Tony says evenly. "You babysit Loki here on Earth, Odin doesn't have to cut his head off back in Asgard. Right. I get it." He pauses briefly. "But Natasha's entirely correct. What's stopping him from slitting our throats while we sleep?"

Clint's come up behind Natasha. He doesn't touch her chair or her shoulder, but he stands very close to her. She doesn't lean into him, but she doesn't lean away.

Steve clears his throat. "You got anything to say for yourself, Loki, now's the time."

Loki glances sideways at Thor, a quick cut of his eyes, there and back. At length he says, "I will not apologize. It would be worth less than nothing to all of you, were I to do so. Suffice to say, I make a terrible enemy." He looks down at the table, pinched and miserable. Honest: "It would not be impossible for you to defeat me a second time. Nor worth your trouble, not when I could be—of use to you. My considerable power to do with as you will."

"Those are all fine, reasonable, _conditional_ things," Tony says. "Now tell me why I should risk my life, Loki." He learns forward on his elbows, eyes hard. "We've established this isn't about redemption, or the people you've killed, or the damage you've caused. You don't regret killing Agent Coulson."

When Tony's eyes go rough and brittle and sharp, Steve touches his knee under the table. It eases the harsh strokes of tension composing the shape of his body.

"Your Agent Coulson aimed a very large weapon at me," Loki says coldly.

"It was battle," Thor adds unhappily, "not murder." The sorrow is plain on his broad, sincere face. But there's trepidation too, as if he's being tricked into telling lies on his brother's behalf. Probably happened a lot when they were kids.

Natasha's hands are white where they curl around the table's edge. "He was one of ours," Clint says.

"I am well aware," Loki studies him, brow furrowing. "Agent Barton, what has happened that you are rendered half-blind?"

"Shut _up_ ," Clint says, slapping a hand down on the table. He's gotta reach past Natasha to do it, and she doesn't even flinch. Steve does, though.

"Barton," Tony says sharply. It's a question and a demand. Clint grimaces.

"It's only the one eye," he admits. "It's not an issue."

"You are no longer a perfect shot," Loki continues softly. "You have lost the most valuable part of yourself." He doesn't sound cruel. He sounds curious, which is almost worse.

" _Loki_ ," Thor hisses as Clint tightens his hand into a fist, "I do not believe it wise to—"

Steve cuts in, "You're not the kinda guy to do anything without thinking five moves ahead. So you may as well show your cards."

Loki looks at him, and Steve looks back. There's no trace of the power-hungry maniac from before. There's not even the lost, listless shell he'd shared meals with on the helicarrier. When he promised Thor he'd take care of his brother.

Right now there's only intellect, aimless and withdrawn. Without passion or direction.

Loki's face creases with displeasure. "I am tired of fighting Thor," he finally murmurs. "Thor fights for you. I would rather—fight beside him. Wherever he chooses go to. Whatever cause he might support." He casts his eyes skyward. "I find I no longer have the stomach for this—this game of _chase_ , for hunting each other through all the realms. I would rather have done. I would rather remain by his side."

Thor goes utterly still.

Quietly, Steve thinks: I know that want. To lay down arms, to have done. To remain by someone's side instead of at their throat. At their feet.

"I think I'm okay with that," Tony says slowly. Steve can't read his expression or his voice. "Even after he threw me out a window—my _own_ window, by the by—I'm still okay with that."

"And your eye, Barton," Loki adds gently. "I mean to say—as I know you," there are worlds of meaning in that simple word: know. "So can I repair you."

* * *

Maybe you're punished for the bad you do, Steve thinks. Maybe you're rewarded for the good.

Maybe you can learn to do better, next time around.

* * *

'Cause he's thinking about it—the super-charged green smell of marijuana, a pair of glasses flickering in watery television light—Steve hunts down Bruce.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he says uneasily as Bruce sits up. The hair on his chest seems darker and coarser in the dim room. It makes Steve feel kinda bare beneath his clothes.

"It's fine," Bruce says sleepily. "Did I miss anything?"

Steve passes him two styrofoam containers and tells him.

"Hmm," Bruce says around mouthfuls. Then he asks, "JARVIS? Where's Tony right now?"

"In the master bedroom with Miss Potts," JARVIS replies readily, and Steve's stomach drops, "discussing travel arrangements."

"Where's he sending her?" Bruce asks lightly.

"Malibu for the time being, Doctor Banner."

Bruce picks apart a bread roll. "She'll be safe enough there."

"Indeed," JARVIS says.

"He's sending Pepper away?" Steve asks, heart stuttering in his chest.

"He sends her away twice a week," Bruce replies. "Well, she sends herself. Stark Industries has a corporate office in Malibu. It makes sense for her to stay put for awhile, just until we're all reasonably sure Loki's a non-threat."

"Won't that be," Steve fishes for what he's trying to say. "Hard for them?"

"Not any harder than usual." Bruce slides outta bed unselfconsciously, pulls on a pair of trousers and a black t-shirt. If Steve looks close, he can pick out Hawkeye's emblem in dark, washed-out purple. "They're pretty busy people."

"Oh," Steve says.

"Tony's not," Bruce starts. He pauses as he gathers up the empty containers. "Tony doesn't always think about her. He tries to. He loves her. But there's a lot going on in his head." He follows Steve outta his bedroom and closes the door behind them.

"Pepper's a sure thing," he explains. "She's safe, she's devoted to Tony, she runs his company. There's nothing to fix, so Tony isn't preoccupied with her. I'm not excusing him," he adds firmly. "It's just how he operates. So when he's working in his lab, he's not thinking about her. When he's with me, he's preoccupied with me." Bruce looks kinda unhappy and kinda fond. Maybe wistful. Steve feels like maybe Bruce is a sure thing, too. "They've never let me feel like a third wheel. Not once. But I do try to make myself scarce sometimes." He chews his lip. "Except..."

"Except?" Steve feels a flicker of guilt at his own preoccupation.

"When it isn't me, it's Clint or Natasha. Whoever's out on a mission. Sometimes it's both of them, but there's less of that now." He pauses. "He isn't exactly impressed with how Doctor Foster handles a crisis. But he did make an effort to keep tabs on Thor."

Steve wonders why Jane didn't bother with a phone call, then, if that's the case. Then he wonders if she even knows Thor's here.

When they get to the stairs, Bruce ushers Steve down first. "He worries about you, too, Steve." Steve cranes his head back sharply, looks up over his shoulder. Bruce is just a few steps above. "He thinks you spend too much time alone."

"Fury thinks that," Steve says, turning away and getting a grip on the railing. He can't keep the bitterness outta his voice.

Bruce touches his shoulder lightly. "We all think that." He lets his hand fall. "Anyway, my point is—getting Pepper somewhere else would have been my first priority. So I'm glad it was his. I'm glad he was thinking about her."

The main floor opens up, bright and inviting. For the first time, Steve realizes all the lights are off upstairs. He and Bruce've been talking in the dark for the last half hour, and Steve didn't even notice. He wonders if Bruce did.

* * *

Tony's still upstairs with Pepper. Bruce is in the kitchen picking over the rest of the leftovers, and Thor and Loki retired to one of the spare rooms right after supper.

What Steve means to do is go out into the night air, breathe deep, and ride his bike home. Take some time to himself, get a plan of action straightened out in his head regarding wayward Asgardian princes.

What he doesn't mean to do is eavesdrop.

"Natasha, the guy was _crawling around in my head_. How can you even _think_ —"

"It's no different than what I would have done. What I _have_ done," Natasha corrects quietly.

"There are _oceans_ of difference. There are whole _solar systems_ of difference. The guy killed Coulson, for god's sake."

"I would have killed Coulson," she says without inflection, "in another life."

"This isn't about you," Clint says roughly.

From just outside the den, a few short yards away from the front door and freedom, Steve can't see them. He doesn't know what they're doing in the silence, and he can't make himself move.

"If it's about you," she says at last, voice gentle as Steve's ever heard it, "it's about me."

"Then how can you be okay with this?" Clint asks wretchedly.

Natasha takes a breath. "If Loki can't wipe out the red on his ledger," she asks, "then what am _I_ doing here?"

"Nat," Clint says, "Don't."

Someone touches Steve's elbow. It's Tony. Looks like he's been here for a while.

Steve's shame must show on his face, but Tony doesn't say a word. Just leads Steve out the back door by his wrist.

* * *

"That's on them," Tony says, voice low and kinda worn. "I can't pretend to understand their particular—mechanics. So. I try not to interfere."

"Right," Steve says. He carefully ignores the bit of oil on Tony's mouth.

They're out by Steve's motorcycle. It's almost full dark now, the driveway illuminated by a single porch light. Seems an awfully long way to the street.

"I'm taking Pepper to the airport when she's done packing," Tony ventures. "If you want to—you know," he glances at Steve with a crooked twist to his lips. "Just. You can stay over. You _should_ stay over. Here. Tonight. Considering present circumstances."

"If it's all the same, I'm just gonna head home."

Tony purses his lips. Eventually he hazards, "If you're mad about the pot." It sounds like a bad word, way he says it.

"It's not that," Steve assures him. It's even true, 'cause it _did_ make Bruce relax a little. Steve figures that's worth a couple naps, maybe. "Just a different way of handling things than I'm used to." Then, 'cause he can't fucking help it, he reaches over and smooths his thumb over Tony's lower lip. Tries not to lose himself as those eyes go dark, as Tony moves into him with his whole goddamn body.

But Steve lets his hand fall, steps away. Wipes the tiny smear of oil off on his pants, glances meaningfully at his bike. "Well. Let me know if there's trouble."

"Look," Tony snaps, "I don't know if you've noticed? But I'm getting some pretty fucked up signals here, Cap. So I'd appreciate a conversation about this." He clears his throat. "Us."

"There's nothing to talk about," Steve tells him. He hasn't forgotten. It was over lunch at an outdoor cafe, and it was sunny, and Steve had said it wouldn't be an issue. Except it's gonna be if Tony keeps bringing it up, jesus christ.

"You go right on telling yourself that," Tony says. "But it'll to be pretty hard to avoid this when everyone's living together, so I suggest you get the fuck over yourself, Rogers. The Tower's almost—"

Steve goes still. "Living together?" He interrupts. "You and Bruce and Pepper? And Thor and Loki?"

"And Clint," Tony says firmly, "and Natasha." He looks impatient, but he also looks wary. It's incomprehensible.

Probably 'cause he spends all his time with robots, Steve thinks wildly. He's got no idea how to talk to real people.

But then Tony's eyes lighten with understanding. "And you, Cap," he clarifies quietly.

"What?" Steve asks. Tony's so close, the smell of him twisting together with the memory of what comes next. It almost overtakes him.

"Top ten floors, Avengers-land. Also Hulk-proof. Mostly."

"Tony," Steve says desperately, "I—"

"Not to mention a fantastic gym. State-of-the-art. Really, Steve, you'll love it, lots of things for you to try and break."

"I already got an apartment," he tries.

"Yeah, but it's terrible and I hate it," Tony insists. He's backed Steve up against his motorcycle at some point, trapped him in the hot cage of his arms. "I think it's something we all need. Living together. You're—"

"Christ, could you _back the hell off_ ," Steve snarls. "What, you gonna just _move me in_ next to your—next to _Pepper_?"

He lets go of Steve. He backs the hell off.

"Look," Tony says, impatient but determined. He takes a breath. "So Bruce, right? Bruce who turns into a monster and sometimes kills people on accident? We keep him close, since that's best for everybody. Non-negotiable."

Steve opens his mouth to say something, 'cause this is completely outta the blue. He's getting conversational vertigo.

"No, _listen_ ," Tony says. "It's also best for Bruce, because he needs to be reminded that he's a fucking _human being_. I can't have him _wishing he was dead_ , I can't fucking handle it." His voice frays around the edges. "So we can't ever let him forget he has people now. Durable, understanding people."

"Tony—"

"Shut up. He has me and he has Pepper, and I hope to hell he has you. Bruce is a fucking suicide, Steve."

There's something on Tony's face Steve's never seen before, something kinda like quiet fear and quiet fury, kinda like grief. It's not the closed-and-boarded no-man's-land like when Coulson died. This is mourning for the living.

Tony says, "He pulled the fucking trigger."

Says, "It just didn't take."

Steve's caught off-guard, sometimes, how Tony can be such a damn saint it blindsides you. He's usually so obnoxious, outright dismissive of anyone who can't keep his attention. But then you turn around and find him sorting through something like this.

"If Clint and Natasha weren't staying here, they'd be kept like goddamn hamsters in little boxes at SHIELD HQ. They'd be living out of motels and—and fucking helicarriers." He frowns, the lines standing out around his mouth. He looks so tired. "And it's not like Thor has anywhere else to go, especially if he's hauling his crazy brother around. I don't think Jane could comfortably accommodate two Norse gods." Tony smiles humorlessly. "I'd sooner move her here with us, wouldn't be too terrible having another scientist in the lab, but her research is in New Mexico anyway and—"

"What if we can't make it work?" Steve sounds loud to his own ears. Only way to get a word in edgewise, though. "If this destroys the little bit of teamwork we've managed to scrape together? People need room to breathe, Tony."

What's living with you gonna do to me, Steve thinks. I can't even deal with you now.

"There will be so much space," Tony says hastily. "Floors and floors of space. Huge apartments just full of space. Private bathrooms, all with lots and lots of space." He licks his lips. "The kitchen is communal but you can always order in if you feel like a hermit, and did I mention the _enormous_ and _catastrophically high-tech_ health and wellness facility? It's seriously going to be the best gym on the planet."

Steve thinks about sitting alone for hours in his small bedroom, lost. Steady, unabating depression closing in around him like an isolation chamber.

When you feel like that, you don't _wanna_ be around other people.

Steve thinks about Bruce, sleepy and brilliant. Keeping a careful eye on his made family. Steve's not a Hulk, he's just a super-soldier. No one's adopted him. Something like putting a bullet in his mouth would probably take.

"So it's not just about you," Tony says, bringing Steve back to the present, to this conversation that makes his lungs burn and his stomach flip. "I know it's difficult here. Different. I know your world's—changed a lot." He glances up, and Steve feels pinned beneath that heavy gaze. Suspended.

It might not be so bad. And—well, durable workout equipment's not something to spit at.

"Okay," Steve allows, 'cause it's as good a way as any to bow outta this conversation. He throws a leg over his motorcycle and fishes around for his helmet. Tony picks it up off the grass, but he doesn't hand it over. Droplets of water from the damp lawn have pebbled over the surface, glinting in the mansion's soft light.

"Wait. There are other things on the table here, Steve."

"We just talked about moving in together." Steve's exhausted. It settles heavily on his shoulders, cuts in around his eyes. "Anything else can wait 'til tomorrow." Steve revs the engine. The sound is absolutely blissful.

"Look," Tony says seriously, "I'm not gonna leave you alone here, okay? You most of all."

"You don't—," Steve says, but then his helmet's clattering to the pavement and the engine's sputtering out. Tony's got a hand hooked around the back of his neck.

He tastes like pizza and olives and oregano. He tastes like scotch, which means it wasn't a glass of soda he'd been drinking at supper. He tastes warm and insistent.

All the fight goes outta Steve. He wants to follow Tony back inside, go to bed with him. Wants it to be okay, but wants to have him even though it's not.

Eventually, Tony picks up the helmet and presses it back into Steve's hands. He's flushed and half-shy. Looks good on him.

"Call me," he says firmly, and lets Steve go.

* * *

But Steve wants no part of this damn charade. There's nothing to talk about, 'cause it's already so clear: Tony's got Pepper, and he wants Steve, too. So the only thing to say is Tony's just not a very good person. Steve doesn't wanna have that conversation.

* * *

The next day, Loki's hurling vicious little bursts of lightning that melt every chunk of metal they come into contact with. He's got his teeth bared, his hands twisting violently, his eyes promising vile, ugly things. So he's more or less settling in.

Iron Man's bursting up through the air in a bright streak before Steve can stop him, attacking from a distance with small clusters of missiles. To his right, Thor's slamming his hammer into the areas of Magento's scrapped-together shields that Loki's weakened. Clint stakes out a clear shot with two sharp, whole eyes, but the arrows keep getting pulled apart before ever reaching their target.

The problem's that Magneto keeps tearing up more bits of the city as he goes, breaking buildings down to their base parts. Steve's sick with worry 'cause _Iron Man shouldn't be here_ , and Loki's doing just as much damage to the Lower East Side as their enemy.

"You need to pull back," Bruce says over the comm. He's a mile out in the jet as backup, just in case they can't reign Loki in. Far as Steve knows, Widow's still piloting. "You have to stop him or get him out of the city proper. You've already levelled two buildings, someone's going to get hurt."

"Candycane," Iron Man growls in Steve's ear, "Cherry pie. Sugar-bottom. This is a bit more difficult than it looks from the peanut gallery."

"Said no scientist ever," Bruce shoots back.

"Goddamn it," Tony says. But he's clever, so he figures something out pretty fast.

It only takes the one shot. Clint refuses to be called 'Pebbles'.

"I'm fine with Goliath," he compromises.

"That metaphor doesn't even make sense!" Tony complains.

"But it sounds better. Maybe I turn other people _in_ to Goliath."

"Shut up, Barton."

* * *

Steve catches Fury before the debrief. "Sir. Why was Magneto attacking the city?"

"Does every lunatic in a cape need a reason to give me a headache?" Fury stalks over to the rest of the team, hands behind his back.

"His vitals are fine, he's just unconscious," Bruce says, straightening. Natasha, who's been hovering close behind him since they landed, falls back a step or two. With JARVIS doing a full scan of Magneto's body, they're able to get all the metal off him.

"Are we handing him over to SHIELD," Steve asks anyone, "or are we waiting 'til he wakes up so we can question him?"

Fury looks hard at Steve. "SHIELD can handle routine questioning, Rogers."

"Make sure you ask what he's got his people doing every time he's out here playing kick-the-can with us." 'Cause that's gotta be the case, if Magneto's so high-profile. Taking on the Avengers alone is just as good as serving himself up on a platter.

Iron Man looks up sharply and swears. Then he turns away from them, which usually means he's barking commands at JARVIS.

"We could see if Professor X can shed some light," Clint says. He's still playing with his handful of rough cement stones. The sling Loki fashioned from someone's shower curtain hangs from his belt.

"They aren't in each other's pockets," Fury says angrily, scrubbing his palm back over his scalp. He's surveying the damage. Place looks like a warzone, and Steve's seen enough of those to know.

"It's political," Tony says a moment later, turning back to the group. "There have been attacks on organizations with known anti-mutant agendas. They just weren't on the books as hate crimes." He pauses. "Or attacks. Only one case was flagged as possible arson, but the rest were chalked up to business-as-usual. I just love this city," Tony sighs. "Our police force hasn't grown lazy or dependant at all, falling for _hella obvious misdirection_ while Magneto's other mutants pick off corporate assholes."

Steve ignores the sarcasm and asks, "Anti-mutant?"

"It's like racism," Tony explains, "except the people you provoke and belittle and protest against have a vast array of powers. And, after a life of persecution, many of them aren't very forgiving."

Uneasily, Steve thinks about considerate telepaths.

"It's a known issue," Fury says. "There are people in high places who lobby for anti-mutant legislation. We do what we can to put pressure on them politically."

"Why does this man yet live?" Loki asks. "Is it not in our interest to kill him?"

"Actually," Bruce sighs, "it really isn't. The mutant situation is complicated. On one hand, no, it isn't okay to pass laws that would make the use of mutant abilities illegal—"

"Especially since some of those abilities," Natasha elaborates, "are as automatic as breathing."

"—but militant sects, like Magneto's, aren't doing their cause any favors. He's essentially a domestic terrorist."

Fury goes to unload something from a military SUV. It glitters painfully in the sunlight, so much clearer and cleaner and more colorless than ice. It looks like a glass coffin.

Steve turns away, looks at anything else. He catches sight of Loki, whose eyes are half-closed in concentration.

"Captain," Loki says quietly, snapping his gaze over Steve's. "The director is willfully misleading you."

"What?" Steve asks, voice low. He starts to turn, but Loki strides forward and catches his wrist. Tony drops outta his conversation with Bruce. This, more than anything, calls the attention of the rest of the group. "You saying he's lying?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Tony says, come up close on Steve's left.

"Not directly," Loki clarifies. "But he withholds much. Of this I am certain."

Clint shoots a quick look at Natasha. The filtered sunlight of the overcast day glows bluer in one eye than the other. "It's pretty standard for SHIELD to skimp on mission intel. We get enough to accomplish mission objectives, further details as needed."

"Yeah," Iron Man cuts in, "but 'further details' sometimes includes 'building weapons' and 'bombing New York'. One heroic jaunt to the other side of the galaxy was more than enough for this space cowboy."

Natasha locks eyes with Steve, then Bruce. Eventually she asks Loki, "Do you have the ability to find out?"

Clint shoots Natasha an unreadable look, mouth tight. Bruce looks small and strained next to Thor's wary bulk.

"I am afraid you will have to specify, Agent Romanov," is Loki's blank reply. His eyes are fixed on Fury's distant back as the man gestures impatiently at SHIELD personnel. "Do you ask me to simply pluck secrets from his mind like so many jewels? Do you ask me to enslave him fully, as I did your companions?"

"Jesus," Clint growls harshly, but Natasha tilts her head and asks, "Can you?"

Loki hesitates.

"It's a simple question," Iron Man points out. He probably means to sound encouraging.

Loki explains, "During the Chitauri invasion, I used many abilities which were not my own." His lips go thin and white. "Some small traces remain."

"Brother," Thor says gently, "if you were to recover the truth, it would greatly assist us."

Loki glances at his palms, then at the sky. His face is still, but his hands are tight and anxious. At length he says, "So be it. If you will excuse me."

He withdraws, but not outta sight. Closes his eyes, tilts back his head.

And—Steve'll never do it justice, telling the story later. People didn't _flicker_ in the forties. But something happens where there's less of Loki, somehow. Where he fades, where color leaches from his face and his hair and his clothing in strange pulses. For a moment, Steve swears he can see right through his body to the rubble just beyond.

Then, all at once, he's back. Ashen, with heavy bruises beneath his eyes. Thor rushes over to him anxiously.

"Huh," Tony murmurs. "Not an afternoon kinda guy? Looks like he needs a nap. _I_ could use a nap. I would actually, right this moment, love nothing so much as—"

"Tony," Steve says under his breath, quieting him. Loki's waving his brother away, distracted. Thor's fidgeting, sharp, worried eyes seeking Loki's in vain. Loki simply stares straight ahead.

"Your confrontations with this Magneto have been orchestrated," he says firmly as they approach. "Publicly, you are on display battling a known terrorist. They are making a show of you." He slowly rotates one wrist, picks at a scab near his thumb. "Privately, SHIELD is sanctioning the execution of individuals who have the resources to hinder this—mutant equality movement." He pauses thoughtfully. "It is not a poorly conceived plan."

"It is cowardly," Thor huffs, arms crossed. "Base trickery. They must be confronted in the open field. They must be shown the error of their ways before the eyes of the people."

"It is diplomacy," Loki corrects, slanting a green glare at his brother. There's no heat to it, though. Just exhaustion. "Extricating the harmful elements so the whole might flourish." He frowns thoughtfully. "Yet another reason among dozens why the throne should pass to me."

"A kingdom cannot be ruled by lies, brother. Odin—"

"Is as tricky as they come," Loki sighs.

"Right, awesome, some god says it's okay for our government to murder private citizens for the greater good." Iron Man rounds on Clint and Natasha. " _Did you know about this_?"

There's a muscle twitching in Bruce's jaw, a steady flash. Steve can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. "Doctor Banner," he says quietly. It feels strange, familiar, 'til he remembers this has happened before.

"Okay," Bruce whispers so only Steve can hear. "I'm okay."

"We follow orders," Natasha's saying calmly. Clint looks unhappy, rolls a cement pebble between his thumb and forefinger.

"That a yes, then?" Steve asks them, and Clint looks up.

"Like I said," Clint answers. "They only gave us enough to get the job done. We have no preliminary assessment, no ongoing-investigation notes, no summary of related incidents. Fury just told us to take care of Magneto." The lines between his eyebrows are sharp and deep as he meets Steve's eyes. "SHIELD tells us just as much as they tell you, these days."

Natasha's studying Fury quietly, utterly without expression. Gives a guy chills to look at her, sometimes. For all the wrong reasons.

"We're gonna play this one by ear," Steve says firmly. "If SHIELD's actively working with mutant terrorist cells, Magneto'll probably be outta custody pretty soon. I figure we don't let on we know anything. Have a game plan for next time he attacks."

"Since we do report to Fury," Natasha tells him, "you should keep us out of this for the time being. We can't tell him what we don't know."

Clint looks unhappy, but nods. "She's right."

"I'm always right." Natasha glances at Bruce speculatively. "Keep in mind that we aren't the only ones following orders. If this involves the Council, Fury's hands are tied."

Steve takes them in, Tony's anger and Thor's frustration and Loki's cold eyes. Bruce with his heart only just this side of caged, Clint with a tight jaw and Natasha fierce and distant. "That reminds me," Steve says.

He covers the fifteen or so yards to Fury, comes up and stands quietly beside him. Together, they watch as the glass cage is loaded onto the transport vehicle. Without his costume, Magneto looks like an old man who's fallen asleep. They've bound his wrists and ankles with zip-ties.

"I'm officially requesting singular command of agents Romanov and Barton," Steve says without preamble.

There's a pause while Fury gives two junior agents a sharp look. They scurry away. "Why should I honor this request, Rogers? They're two of my best."

"Not anymore, they're not," Steve says curtly. "They're two of mine."

"Anything in particular that's brought this up?"

Steve tilts his head back, firms his jaw. "Agent Romanov's active-duty condition last night was not acceptable. She shoulda been hospitalized."

"I needed her take on Loki. No one's a better read than she is."

"You didn't need her as bad as she needed someone to stitch her up," Steve bites out. "We had Thor and Bruce. Interrogation coulda waited 'til morning."

"Even if I agree, which I'm not sure that I do, the Council won't approve the transfer if they get wind of it. Which they will," Fury points out evenly. "They don't think I have enough control over the Initiative as is."

"Your agents are no good for undercover work anymore," Steve says. "Their faces are known. Tell the Council they got no reason to turn me down. Tell them I insist."

"Are you prepared to tell them that yourself, _soldier_?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate for a second.

Fury lets out a long-suffering breath. "I'll see what I can do. If they refuse?"

"Then I want override clearance. I wanna be able to pull either of them off SHIELD missions at my own discretion." Steve clears his throat. "I want full disclosure, and I want the final say on what constitutes a medical emergency. And whether or not they get checked into a hospital."

Fury's silent for awhile, but not as long as Steve might've expected. "I'll take a look at their paperwork."

* * *

It's mid-afternoon by the time they're done for the day. There was a suspiciously cut-and-dry debrief, some deflective speculation, and—paperwork, at the end. Agent transfer paperwork. Steve gets the impression that Fury's trying to sneak it under the radar with the mission report.

After, Tony hooks one of Iron Man's fingers around Steve's shield, draws him up short. "I think the Professor X angle is still a good idea. He'd have some insight on how to handle this sanctioned-terrorism crap."

"I'll ask him," Steve says stiffly. So Tony knows about his therapy sessions after all. He tries to keep his face blank.

"Let me know what you find out," Tony says. "We'll compare notes." He must be preoccupied, 'cause he doesn't even invite Steve back to the Manor with the rest of the team.

Later that night, Steve does some research. He uses Google. Joins a couple online forums, gets a feel for the mutant rights movement. Philosophies and methods.

The following Monday, when he sees Charles, the man's handsome face seems twice as lined and half as sure as Steve remembers.

"Your garden's starting to sprout." Charles smiles, but it's obvious he's gotta work at it. "There are a few new weeds, though."

"Sir," Steve says. Like last time, his stress and worry bleed out with the heat of the sun, and the dark knot of troubles loosens and dissipates. But he holds on to his question, and after about twenty minutes the weeds are taken care of.

"Professor," he asks. Charles looks up from a book. He hasn't been interrupted once, by students or otherwise.

"Yes, Steven?" He marks his page, settles the text on his lap. Gives Steve his full attention, 'cause he's exactly that kinda person. Half the healing is meeting someone's eyes, Steve thinks absurdly. Then he realizes it might not be his thought at all, might be Charles supplying a subtle answer to a subtle question. It makes him feel strange. But it comforts him, too.

"About Magneto," he starts.

Charles' face ages even further. "I think we would be more comfortable in my study."

* * *

"Erik Lensherr is a man of rare strength and sincerity," Charles says. "Despite my own gifts, I have never felt so powerful, nor so connected to a greater vision, as when I stood shoulder to shoulder with that man." There are shadows around his eyes. There is loss and grief and steely resolve. There is resignation many decades old that aches even now.

"His presence bolsters you. He is a whetstone. He brings all things into his sharp focus."

Steve thinks about being in someone's pocket. His stomach goes cold.

What Steve learns, in Charles Xavier's study, is a how couple of extraordinary people can move mountains. Between them they've got ambition, empathy; charisma. A clear vision of everything wrong with the world they live in. They can _fix_ things. All they gotta do is stay together.

But it's hard to build a hospital when your partner wants a crematorium. When you can't make the foundations work, 'cause making peace means letting go of vengeance. When, for one of you, peace was never an option at all.

Steve learns you can try to heal the infection, clean the wound. Or you can just cut out the dead and dying tissue. What he learns is neither of these men are right, 'cause you can't just kill everyone who thinks different than you. But you can't let them continue to poison the minds of others, either, 'cause then the wound will never close. Eventually, the infection spreads and destroys everything.

In the end, Steve doesn't ask Charles what to do. He figures it's the question Charles has been asking himself for the last fifty years.

* * *

Phone's ringing off the hook when Steve gets back from his workout.

"Why didn't you answer your cell?" Tony demands.

"I was at the gym," Steve says. "Why are you calling at seven in the morning?"

"Thought I'd do you a favor," Tony says flippantly, "since _you_ never actually call _me_. I know you know how." He pauses. "You're welcome."

Steve shifts the phone to his shoulder, rifles through his bag for a towel. "I'm just about to jump in the shower, Tony."

There's a beat of silence. Then Tony asks, "Are you busy later?"

It's Tuesday. Steve's schedule is devastatingly free. "Why?"

"Have dinner with me," Tony says. "I'll pick you up. Seven?"

"Tony—"

"To compare notes," Tony says.

"Fine." Brief trickles of sweat shiver down Steve's spine, collect in the creases of his chest and belly, under his arms. He thinks about cool water on his face and back. He closes his eyes and sees blue.

"Dress sharp," Tony orders, and hangs up.

* * *

Steve answers the door at seven-fifteen. "You're late."

Tony studies him critically. "You look good," he says, even though he's the one in the flashy getup: rich, supple gray with teal and silver accents. Cufflinks that may or may not be set with diamonds. Goatee perfectly trimmed. Not that it matters, silk or engine grease or armor all beat to hell. He's Tony, and Steve is Steve. Nothing changes.

"Had some help," Steve admits. He picked up his suit late this morning, balking a bit at the sales associate's strong-armed enthusiasm. Fashion trends, prices. But it's not like Steve hasn't got the money for a suit, these days.

"Excellent tailoring," Tony says, reaching out and smoothing his hand over the ivory fabric. Steve thought it was a bit over-the-top, maybe. He's used to seeing black and brown, maybe dark blue. But he kinda likes the color against his forest green shirt, his matte-charcoal tie and shoes. "Stellar cut."

There's a brief second where Tony looks like he wants to say something else, but Steve sorta edges him toward the door. "Shoulders," Steve says.

"Waist, too." Tony's voice is soft as his hand falls to Steve's lower back.

Steve makes a neutral sound of acknowledgement, caught up in the warmth of Tony's palm on his spine. How it soaks in through three layers of clothing.

"So about Loki," Tony mentions lightly when they get outside. He's parked his sharp little sports car on the curb, left her running. He goes around to the passenger side, and Steve doesn't realize Tony's opened the door for him 'til he's already sitting down.

He doesn't know what to do with this. So he simply waits for Tony to continue.

"I know we've only had him for a few days." Tony pulls the car out into traffic. "But what Natasha said. About red on her ledger. And that freaky shit Loki did where he, y'know, wasn't all there for a minute or two. To find out about Magneto and SHIELD?"

Steve glances at the speedometer and firmly reminds himself that he jumps outta planes and buildings. Rides a motorcycle. Has been known to hang off trains going at full speed. He wonders if Tony even knows how fast he's going, or if it's just another thing he doesn't think about. Like with Pepper.

If maybe it's a thing he _does_ think about, like Bruce, but isn't particularly concerned with, like the Hulk.

Steve gets a feeling in his gut, like he's just a player on a stage. How Tony sees everyone that way, maybe. It's not a nice thought.

"It has to mean something," Tony murmurs, squinting at a stoplight. Steve doesn't know why anyone would wear sunglasses on an overcast day. "Being part of our team."

"It does," Steve says. Maybe it didn't, at first. But it does now.

"Right. And Loki fixed Clint's eye. I didn't watch him do it, but Loki said he could, and now Clint can see. They're even mostly getting along." Tony says. "Loki's interested in the arc reactor, too. I told him we could trade, his magic super-science for my arc technology."

Tony leaves the car with the valet, holds the door for Steve and ushers him inside.

The restaurant's in a hotel, has the kinda angular, whimsical architecture Steve's still trying to get used to. Lavish furnishings, seven- and ten-course meals, waiters you hardly notice. The ceilings are so high and the lamps are so low that, looking up, he sees only a faraway darkness.

After they've ordered drinks, Tony volunteers, "I hacked SHIELD's latest server encryptions earlier this afternoon."

Steve assumes servers, like many things in the twenty-first century, run on electricity.

"You find anything?" Steve asks at length.

"Loki's file," Steve glances over at him, notices the dark shadows beneath his sunglasses. Wonders if Tony got any sleep at all last night, if he's eaten today. Figures at least food's next on the list.

Tony picks at his cuticles. "I found a pool of directives, different options for how SHIELD plans to handle him. Officially." His face twists. "One of them in particular stood out."

Steve listens, chewing his food. It's excellent—Tony ordered for him, didn't even ask, but Steve would've been pretty lost with the menu. Expensive French food seems to be a theme of the future-present. When he glances up, Tony's watching him quietly.

"What Loki said." He pushes something unidentifiable around on his plate. "Wanting to stay with Thor. Not wanting to fight him." His eyes are bright. He looks so young. "Do you believe him?"

"I do," Steve says, blood rushing in his wrists, slinking around in his chest.

"Why?"

"People get tired of fighting, Tony," Steve says. "You get tired of fighting against people who try to fight for you."

Tony takes a drink of his wine, long and deep. Then he says, "They're considering lockup, torture. Learn what they can from him, then break him down to his base parts to see how he ticks."

Steve's jaw goes tight. He doesn't realize he's curled his hand into a tight fist 'til Tony reaches forward, covers it soothingly with his own. "The actual wording is something like, 'Thorough and exhaustive examination of subject,' but it's SHIELD, and it's government, and there isn't anything else that can mean."

"I didn't promise Thor I'd keep his brother safe," Steve says angrily, "just so SHIELD can kill him slowly behind our backs."

Tony's eyes glow in the dim light. The way the shadows cut around his face, catch gleaming copper and dusky charcoal in his dark, dark hair, moves through Steve like a spirit. He wants to paint Tony, just like this. Layer the rich washes, give it contrast and depth. Give it some softness, too. Capture it in perfect balance, so he'll always have it.

"I've made _billions_ off sanctioned murder," Tony murmurs, shoulders bowed in a sharp line as he hunches forward. "Clint's a sniper, and Bruce has killed people horribly—accidentally, but horribly—and everything Natasha said about herself? Red ledgers, Coulson? It's all true."

"Tony—"

"Look," he goes on, "We can absolutely vilify Loki. He's done some terrible shit. But he's not a sociopath. He's just a fucking mess like the rest of us." He squeezes Steve's hand and then lets him go. "The only one of us with a clean slate is you, Cap."

Nobody's got a clean slate, Steve thinks with a tightness in his belly. Sometimes you don't even know who you're hurting 'til after the fact.

Their waiter serves dessert. Steve's throat is hoarse when he asks, "What'd you do with the files?" He takes a bite of his chocolate-and-coffee mousse cake. Tony called it _tiramisu_.

"I deleted them. I deleted all of them except the one about integrating him into the Avengers." Tony picks at his plate, drinks more wine. Eventually he says, "If he's going to be part of our team, he's part of our team. We can't—it isn't," he fumbles, and Steve looks up, looks him over. "If Fury lets Loki join the Avengers just to—pacify Thor. To get Loki's trust. So it makes it easier, when the time comes, to. Trap him."

"We won't let that happen," Steve says. "To be honest, I'm more concerned about his connection to the Chitauri." _You haven't made a lotta friends, Loki_ , he remembers. He frowns. "Feels like we're gonna have another fight on our hands at some point."

"Isn't this some bull," Tony laughs harshly, "talking about defending this goddamn egomaniacal space-age Hitler."

"It's their methods," Steve sighs.

"SHIELD has this bad habit," Tony agrees, "of going about things exactly the wrong way."

Steve'll be damned if he lets liars and killers run the show. The Avengers are _his_. It's gotta mean something, being a part of them. So the Avengers are his, they'd be his even if he didn't like Tony at all, if he didn't get along with Natasha, if he couldn't deal with Thor and if Bruce wasn't his friend.

He's starting to understand, a little, what Clint meant. About family.

* * *

Steve doesn't notice 'til Tony's fumbling with the pen, paying the bill. Clumsily waving Steve off when Steve tries to pay his share.

Then he counts back and does the math. Figures how many glasses were his outta those two and a half bottles of wine Tony'd tossed back like water. Comes up with maybe three.

Tony's drunk.

"Elevator," Tony says, hand warm on Steve's arm as Steve steadies him, leads him through the lobby. "C'mon, c'mon, got something to show you."

Wordlessly, Steve bundles Tony into the elevator. He activates it with a room card, fingers unsteady over the buttons. They're going to the top floor.

"You feeling okay?" Steve asks, glancing out into the night as the city falls away beneath them. The elevator's on the outside of the building, all glass so Steve can see for miles. The sun set maybe an hour ago, and New York's a cradle of bright, multicolored stars in a bottomless black abyss.

"Perfect," Tony answers, leaning back against the glass. "Never better." He's flushed, his tie come loose. He closes his eyes, but when the elevator stops, he looks over and smiles at Steve. He's so fucking gorgeous it's a punch in the stomach, and Steve looks away.

Tony leads him to a hotel suite. There're two levels, a kinda lower lounge area and an open, upstairs bedroom. Like the ride up, it's got a hell of a view, floor to ceiling windows and no other buildings to block the distant streets and the far-off bay.

"Okay, so," Tony says, warm and close. "Don't, uh. Don't go anywhere, 'kay?"

"What?" Steve wrinkles his brow.

"You wouldn't be the first date to slip out on me soon as I've got my head turned," Tony jokes. Only it doesn't sound all that funny.

He disappears into the bathroom. Steve stays by the window, looks up at the empty sky. Thinks about light pollution, how it blots out the constellations he grew up with as a kid. How people keep their stars on the streets now.

When Tony gets back, he comes up from behind and slips his arms around Steve's waist. Presses his cheek into the back of Steve's neck.

"Thought you had something to show me," Steve says. Tony's arms tighten.

"I lied," he replies. "I want to talk." His hands fan open, spread over Steve's chest and belly in slow circles.

Steve turns around, catches cold fingers, pins them in place. "This ain't happening, Tony."

"I know what it means." Tony's slurring a little, but his eyes are bright and sure. "To follow someone around, hassle them about eating. Check on them, make sure they're okay when they're spending too much time alone. I know what it means," and here his palm flattens, hot and steady, over Steve's heart. "Having your pulse go crooked and haywire because some idiot's almost gotten himself killed." He brings his and Steve's hands to his mouth, kisses Steve's knuckles. Then he steps back.

Steve watches him, aching.

"I know, Steve. I do." He searches Steve's face. "But I'm starting to think you don't."

"I can't do this, Tony," Steve says. He can hear the roughness of his own words, the way they hitch and fall.

"You want to," Tony says. His tongue darts out, wets his mouth. His eyes never leave Steve's.

"I do," Steve finally admits. The world seems a thousand miles away in all directions. "But I'm telling you no."

Tony, soft and drunk and sweet. Earnest like Steve rarely sees him. Hands hot and dry, skating up Steve's forearms. Tony, carefully asking, "Are you?"

Steve thinks about the things you want, the things you're willing to pay for. Tony smooths his thumb over the pulse just inside Steve's elbow.

Steve doesn't say anything more. But he gets a hand in Tony's hair, drags him forward, kisses him 'til he can't breathe. 'Til everything in his world narrows down to one fine point: the taste of wine, the pliable heat of Tony's limbs. The slow rush as Tony fumbles outta his clothes, the awkward fumble up the stairs, the cool, five-star hotel room sheets.

Tony's arc reactor spilling out, chasing away the shadows and staining everything with the color that means home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Steve loses time. It's happened before. He's got Tony on his belly, a pillow shoved under his hips. The arc reactor sealed against the sheets, drawing the darkness close and soft around them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor updates/corrections as of 2013AUG21.

Steve loses time. It's happened before.

He's got Tony on his belly, a pillow shoved under his hips. The arc reactor sealed against the sheets, drawing the darkness close and soft around them.

"Jesus," Tony breathes. The long muscles in his thighs coil and stretch with the slide-snap of each thrust. He presses his face into his arm, braces his palms flat against the headboard. Rocks back every time Steve pushes in.

It's all Steve can do to keep rhythm without losing his mind. With reverent fingertips, he traces the tiny, faded scars that spill over the curve of Tony's spine, sleep in the hollows of his shoulder blades. Droplets of sweat bead above and beside them like luminescent jewels, and Steve slows his pace so he can follow them with his tongue.

"Nonononono," Tony pleads quietly. There's a fine tension in his arms, a kinda delicate tremor that drifts through him like a pulse. "Don't stop, don't."

"Not stopping," Steve mouths against his damp hairline, high on the back of his neck. Punctuates his words with a long, steady pull. Pushes in again, makes sure Tony feels every goddamn inch.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Tony locks his knees together, clenching around Steve's swollen cock, "You can't, I, you just— _Steve_ —"

"Shut up, got you, I've got you," Steve chokes out, arms snaking around Tony's chest and belly, holding him in place. Picks up the pace and loses himself in the paradise of heat and sweat, the softness of the sheets under his knees. How Tony smells, how they seem to fit together like a lock and a key. Crafted from the same metal, engineered by the same hand.

Tony comes with a pale, ragged sound, and Steve's mouth on his shoulder. When he's got his breath back, Steve whispers, "Roll over, sweetheart."

"Mmm?" Tony murmurs blearily, but does as he's told with lazy, liquid movements. The room floods with teal light. Steve settles between his legs, hitches one of Tony's knees over his shoulder. Gets a solid grip on his angled thigh.

"What—," Tony shudders as Steve slides home. Then he hisses under his breath and hooks his ankles together, draws him in deeper. There's nothing in Steve's life as beautiful as this singular, sacred moment.

He's gotta stay here as long as he can, make it last. 'Cause he can't keep it.

" _Shit_." Tony's hands are tangled up in the sheets, his hair loose and soft around his face. His dick brushes against Steve's belly, stiffening again, but Tony stops him when he reaches between their bodies.

"Not yet," he says in a rush, "too soon, you still haven't, you," but Steve bats him away. Palms the slick length of him, fucks into him as Tony fucks up into his hand.

He shifts Tony's legs so he can kiss him through it, and Tony's toes curl into Steve's calves like a puzzle piece slotting into place. Steve gets his arms around him, moans at the pressure as it rolls through the body beneath his. Waits it out with his teeth clenched tight.

"Steve," Tony whispers against his ear, his mouth wet, and then his voice goes high as Steve starts moving a third time.

Mercilessly, he sinks his fingers into Tony's hips. Flexes forward, in and out, fast and hard, the whole world fading to white around him. Tony with tears in his eyes, so sensitive from coming twice already. His voice, mangled and loose and loud. The smell of his sweat and his come, his cologne.

Steve's mind goes blank after that. There's a hand twisted in his hair, heat leaking against his belly. A universe of starlight behind his eyes.

Moments or minutes later, Tony's wheezing beneath him. Flushed, words bursting out like his lungs are on fire. "Jesus _christ_ , what." His voice sounds like it's all full of holes. His hands trace angular shapes over Steve's back, slow and hesitant. "If you were—if you were gonna go again, I'd have to," he sighs, swallows delicately. Presses his sweaty face into Steve's sweaty shoulder. "To s-stop you, so fucked-out it fucking _hurts_ , fuck."

Steve kisses his temple. The arc reactor's digging into his chest, warm between their bodies. It's kinda nice. "Shoulda told me to stop," he murmurs. The guilt starts slowly, creeps in to erode the vibrant balm of release.

"Not on your life," Tony laughs breathlessly, banishing Steve's worries with a gesture. "But that isn't usual for me, so don't expect a repeat performance for a while. I don't think I'll be able to get it up again for a week."

"Noted," Steve says, sliding outta bed to grab a washcloth.

Tony watches him go. "Did I say week? I probably meant day. I probably meant tomorrow night." He swallows with a dry click as Steve returns. "I mean I definitely said in the morning. This morning, after we go to sleep for awhile and then wake up again."

Steve doesn't say anything, just does the best he can wiping them down. They made a hell of a mess.

"Hey," Tony says quietly. "Steve."

When Steve doesn't look up, Tony pulls him firmly back into bed. They spend a minute maneuvering around the damp spot. It isn't hard. There's a lotta space.

Tony squeezes his arms, his ribs, his backside. Reaches up with a tired, lazy fingertip and taps his face gently. "You," he yawns, "—'ve got come on your jaw."

"Mmhmm," Steve mumbles, pulling Tony against his chest. Nothing in the world like it, someone warm and loose in your arms. Someone that, someone you—that you could—

"Look," Tony says, voice thick with sleep, but Steve doesn't hear what he says after that. There's a peace in his bones he hasn't felt for a long time. It stretches all through his body, swallows him whole. Takes him far away.

* * *

He wakes up several hours later with Tony's face pressed into his neck, the heat unbearable under the blankets. The room's almost completely dark. It stays that way 'til Steve peels their bodies apart and Tony's heart glows, muted and luminous, through the sheets.

Steve's sweating, and ravenous, and smells like sex. He takes a cold shower, which deals with most of these things.

There's shampoo and soap, but not the sample-sized hotel kind. While he's towelling off, he sees the toothbrush. It's red and yellow. There's a second one on the counter still in its packaging.

Steve purses his lips. But then he catches his reflection in the mirror: damp and bleary-eyed with messy, wet hair. Shoulders relaxed and low, drained of his usual restless energy.

There's a fading indentation on his ribs, geometric and clean-edged, from how they'd fallen asleep. He touches the shadow of a bruise, half-wishing it wouldn't be gone in an hour. Half-irritated that Tony didn't bring him out to dinner to _compare notes_ at all.

It's about five-thirty. Steve would go for a run, but he honestly doesn't feel that particular itch yet. And he doesn't have a t-shirt or sweats.

Which reminds him. Towel around his waist, he walks quietly around the room and picks up their clothes, discarded so hurriedly last night. He folds them as neatly as he can.

"Dry cleaning," Tony mumbles from bed, the room growing faintly brighter as he stretches out on his back. "Room service." He yawns, long and luxurious. The sheets are bunched around his belly. Steve kinda wants to kiss his nipples. "Order whatever, I'll eat what's left."

"Didn't mean to wake you." Steve sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed, powerless to chastise him about _lying_. Tony immediately crawls close, squeezing Steve's knee briefly before burying his face into the pillows.

"Didn't. Phone is there." He doesn't really point, but kinda jerks his shoulder in the vague direction of the nightstand.

After a minute or two, Steve finds the hotel-issue dry cleaning bag and bundles their laundry inside. There's also a room service menu near the phone. Stomach rumbling with interest, he tries not to be appalled at the pricing. Steadily reminds himself of inflation, how there was probably less money _in the world_ in the nineteen-forties than in Tony Stark's present-day bank accounts.

He orders the dry-cleaning service and about half the menu. His problem, when he's hungry, is everything looks good. It's pretty hard for him to pick and choose.

The only hiccup happens when there's a knock on the door, 'cause Steve realizes he doesn't have anything to answer it in except a towel.

"Housekeeping," the soft, slightly accented voice calls.

Tony fumbles outta bed wordlessly like it's reflex, like navigating a hotel room in the dark is a regular part of his life. He grabs the dry-cleaning from Steve, gently maneuvers him outta the line of sight. Then he answers the door himself.

Naked.

"Thanks," he says flatly as the woman scurries away.

" _Tony_ ," Steve admonishes, but Tony waves him off.

"Nothing you can't find on the internet," he mumbles, burrowing back under the blankets.

"Least _I'm_ wearing a towel, you—"

" _What_ ," Tony snaps, poking his head up. His hair's sticking out in all directions. "Did you want to be on the internet, too?"

"I—oh," Steve says quietly. He clears his throat. "Um. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Now go play with my tablet or something while I sleep off the other half of this hangover. And my bone-dry balls. And my sore ass."

Steve swallows thickly, pretends his face isn't burning, and surreptitiously googles _Tony Stark naked_.

* * *

"Not my proudest moment," Tony says around a croissant. He's flipping through the browser history on his tablet, to Steve's great shame and fascination. He'd snatched it up around seven, along with a plate of pastries, when Steve went to the bathroom. "But you've got to admit it's a good angle for me."

It's not a good angle for Tony. It's a good angle for the young couple with him. Steve tries to sort out how he feels, if it's jealousy or revulsion or curiosity. If he feels possessive of Tony, or disappointed in him. If he doesn't care one way or another, 'cause the very young Tony in the photo became the Tony of today, the Tony he—the Tony who became Iron Man.

So Steve says, "I've seen better."

Tony stares at him. Then he laughs, surprised and pleased. Reaches over and wipes a bit of food off Steve's mouth, lets his thumb rest on Steve's lower lip. "You're not lying."

Steve bites gently at Tony's knuckle, then leans over and taps the tablet screen, banishing the lewd images. "I had an idea," he says. "You hacked SHIELD to get that info on Loki. Could you see if they got anything on Magneto? Maybe a list of the people his men are targeting?"

"You want me to hack into SHIELD to get you a hit-list of political troublemakers?" Tony draws his eyebrows together, like he's trying to puzzle Steve out. Then he looks keen. "What are you going to do with it?"

"I figure we can maybe sit them down, talk to them." Steve shifts onto his back, tucks his arms behind his head. "Be a little persuasive if we gotta."

"You're talking dirty, Cap," Tony murmurs, moving the food outta the way so he can sorta curl up half on top of Steve. "Hit-lists, scare tactics. What next? Lying to get into the army?"

Steve snorts, hooks an arm around Tony's neck and pulls him in. Catches his lips, kisses him just 'cause he can. Tony shifts his body, settles over Steve's hips with his thighs parted. Presses his palms into Steve's chest.

"We can let Magneto know we're talking to these guys," Steve murmurs when they break apart. Tony's got a hand on Steve's face, their foreheads pressed together. "Charles'll pass it on. Meantime, we get Natasha to pay a few visits. Clint. Maybe Bruce if we got someone who thinks he's real tough." He slides the tips of his fingers slowly up and down Tony's waist. "Neutralize the situation without hurting anybody else."

"I'll look into it," Tony says, kissing along Steve's jaw. "I'll email you what I find. Just make sure I get out of bed at some point."

"Speaking of," Steve says. Then he sits up, careful not to jostle Tony too much. Glances up at him, the messy scrawl of his hair, the pillow lines on his face. "You gonna clean up any time soon?"

"Why? You like me better when I'm pretty?" There's still some frosting on Tony's mouth and fingers. Steve likes him however he can get him.

"You had an alert." He remembers the little yellow bubble. "SI meeting ten a.m.?"

Tony wrinkles his nose, shrugs carelessly. "Whatever. I can skip it."

But someone might put two and two together, Steve thinks. It was a close call earlier, with the maid. Steve hadn't thought about it at the time, how it's harder these days. Keeping a secret. The knowledge chills him, even as the shame ignites a sick heat in his bones. "I don't think that's a good idea, Tony. We're gonna be missed at some point."

Tony looks at him carefully, quiet and serious. Then he sighs grandly, making a show of it. Gripes, "Fine, fine. All work and no play." But his hands hesitate on the comforter. He's kept it modestly around his waist. "Look, Steve—don't freak out, okay?"

Steve looks up at him warily. "About what?"

An odd expression crosses Tony's face. Then he pulls back the blankets and slides outta bed.

Steve inhales sharply. He didn't notice before, but now there's enough sun leaking in through the split in the curtains. So he sees.

Tony's hips and thighs are covered with mottled, muddy bruises. Some are still splotchy and red, but most are edged with black. Almost all of them are some shade of purple-blue.

"Are those from—did _I_ —"

Tony grabs at Steve's hands, which he belatedly realizes are hanging anxiously in the air. "I told you not to freak out. They're just bruises. They'll go away."

"They're—," the exact size and shape of Steve's fingertips. Painful to look at. _Evidence_. "Hell, Tony." Steve glances up at him, stomach rolling over. Tony gets a firm hand on his jaw, tilts up his chin so he can lean down and kiss him.

"I regret nothing," Tony murmurs, amused. Edges his thumb over Steve's cheekbone. "And I don't mind. I get banged up worse in the suit on a regular basis." He winks. "You should think about giving me a hickey next time."

Steve swallows. Since there's no helping it, since Tony's gonna see it anyway—he reaches over and gently taps the reddish bite mark just above Tony's shoulder blade. "To match this one?"

"What?" Tony cranes his head back to look at it, ends up wandering over the closet mirror for a better view. "Oh. Huh. Awesome."

Steve stares at the supple lines of his shoulders and thighs, the smooth plane of his belly. The bright glow of the arc reactor, set in his chest like a precious stone.

Tony goes still under his gaze. Licks his lips. "So, yeah. Shower."

"Can I come with you?" Steve asks, bewildered even as the words tumble out. But he might not get another night with Tony, another handful of stolen hours. He's already going to hell for this. Might as well take what he can get in the meantime.

Any minute, all this could be gone. It's an awful feeling. It never goes away.

"You already took a shower," Tony says, glancing at him sideways.

"So I'll take another," Steve answers. He hopes he doesn't sound desperate. Can't be helped either way, though.

"It's a free country," Tony allows.

He's oddly quiet as they step under the water. When he reaches sideways past Steve for the bottle of bodywash, Steve automatically slips his hands around Tony's waist. Slides wet fingers over the bruises he made last night with his left hand, rests his right low on Tony's back. "Hey," he says, leaning down to breathe in the smell of wet, unwashed hair. Flat and curling against Tony's neck and forehead, it's longer than it looks dry.

"Hey yourself, Cap," Tony replies. He's not looking at Steve. He's not looking at anything, but he's picking up a frilly green ball that looks kinda like mesh plastic. Turning it over in his hands.

"So. You can get this wet?" Steve asks curiously. He skates the fingers of one hand gently over the smooth surface of the arc reactor, the scarred flesh surrounding it.

Tony goes still in his arms. "Yeah," he says. "It's, uh. Waterproof. Like stainless steel. High iridium content." His eyebrows are pulled together unhappily.

"Something wrong?"

"No, I—no," Tony says abruptly, and then he turns his back on Steve.

Steam curls lazily around them. But Tony's neck is flushed with more than heat.

It takes a minute to register that Tony's acting _shy_.

Steve pulls him close with a soft huff. Revels in the slide of their slick skin. "Unbelievable," he says against Tony's wet ear. "Damn exhibitionist in bed, but a gentleman in the shower?"

Tony glances over his shoulder at him, wrinkles his nose. "In the twenty-tens, we prefer the phrase, 'a whore in bed and a lady in the streets.'"

"You're not a whore," Steve says, arms tightening around Tony's chest. "Or a lady."

"An argument could be made for either," Tony says, shrugging. "Actually, I—"

"Tony."

Slowly, the angles smooth outta Tony's shoulders. He leans back into Steve's chest, his body a perfect weight. "In bed," he explains delicately, "I can be very—distracting. So. I know this thing is, is weird. And I can't turn it off." He shifts slowly in Steve's arms so they're face to face. Traps the pale teal glow between their wet bodies, setting blue fire to every droplet of water on the walls. "It's in the way and it keeps Pepper awake and people stare when I'm in public unless I wear a three-piece suit which, by the way, is not at all amenable to a New York summer," he says in a rush.

"It's—"

"And here you are looking like a fucking model, just goddamn perfect down to your ankles, and I'm—not," he says at last, like it's gotta be pried outta him. "In addition to my other defects."

"You're not def—"

"Physically defective, as in _some_ of the broken things, lots of wear and tear. Not mentally of course, everyone knows I'm brilliant, it's why I don't make it to the gym every single day. I just." He trails off, darting furtive looks at Steve's face. "I have so many things to do in the lab, so my body is _imperfect_ , marginally, because I have a _perfect fucking brain_."

There's an awkward silence while Steve studies his face.

Tony washes distractedly with the frilly plastic ball.

Steve stops him. "Let me," he says.

Tony watches him, eyes deep and unreadable like he might say no. But he does hand it over.

At Steve's expression, Tony smiles crookedly. "It's a loofah." He dumps a generous amount of bodywash on top of it. "The texture helps with the scar tissue."

Steve nods. Turns him gently by the shoulder, guides him against the tile with a soft clink of metal on tile.

"What are we—oh." Tony's quiet for a time.

Steve scrubs at his back, the criss-cross and spatter of pale markings. A long, thin line over his ribs and shoulder blade in a jagged, angular crescent. Shrapnel, torture, and minor abrasions from three months living in a cave. In the care and at the sufferance of terrorists.

"Not sure if you remember," Steve says slowly, scrubbing along Tony's spine less than he's caressing it, "but you said I wasn't—special. 'Cause the serum made me what I am."

"That was," Tony tries, shoulders in an unhappy line, but Steve cuts him off.

"I know what it was. Listen to me. Whatever your misgivings about my body, it's—it's me," Steve says. "This is me, and part of me, and it's what you—," he can't quite say _want_. He says instead, "—like. Unless I'm, uh. Misreading something."

"You aren't," Tony says, his voice thin.

"So we're clear," Steve says, and presses a kiss to the back of Tony's neck. Presses his palm against Tony's heart. "This is you. It's what I like."

Tony turns to look at him, pulse flashing in his throat. He opens his mouth to say something. Steve waits, breathless.

There's another knock at the door.

"Dry cleaning," Tony blurts out, and barely rinses off before trailing water all over the bathroom and hotel carpet.

Steve sighs. At least he grabbed a towel this time.

* * *

"They keep a room for you?" Steve asks, 'cause the suit Tony's changing into's not the suit he wore yesterday. All that stuff by the sink and on the edge of the tub were already Tony's. He didn't even have the tablet at dinner last night, far as Steve can remember. Which means it's an extra he keeps in this room.

Steve's trying to be diplomatic about this. He _is_. But he kinda hates how he feels like Tony set this up. Steve doesn't need any help making his own damn mistakes, thanks.

" _I_ keep a room for me," Tony answers. "I own the hotel."

"Oh," Steve says.

"I like to drive these really neat cars," he explains casually, doing something complicated and precise with his tie. "I also like to drink. Some nights more than others." He turns away from the full-length mirror and brushes a strand of hair off his forehead. Dressed, beard neatly trimmed, hair mostly under control, he slips his cufflinks into place. He's devastating. "Personal experience dictates that it's prudent to do these activities exclusive of one another. With very clear boundaries."

"Right," Steve says. He's got on his slacks and his shirt, but not his jacket or tie. His sleeves are carefully rolled up over his forearms, and he hasn't bothered with too much more than combing his hair.

"So before I get distracted again," Tony murmurs, eyes heavy on Steve's open collar. "You think Professor X can be our line of communication with Magneto?"

Steve nods. "As far as what we need, yeah. I get the impression they're close. But I don't think—they don't help each other." He explains about them while Tony looks on. How one wants to lay waste, clear the path for a _new breed_ of humans. How the other wants to forge a respectful coexistence between groups of people that _loathe_ each other.

How there are decades of regard and affection between them, and no possible way they could ever make it work.

"So no on the Professor-X-brings-Magneto-over-to-the-good-guys plan?"

"That was a plan?" Steve asks bleakly.

"I have others," Tony purses his lips thoughtfully. "I like yours best, though. I'll see you tonight?"

Steve's heart constricts. "Tony—"

"Later today, I mean," Tony clarifies quickly. "I'll get you your hit-list, Captain Intimidation. We can figure out a _plan_ of _attack_ from there." He smiles, half shy and half sardonic. Warms Steve through.

"Okay," Steve says.

Tony fumbles around for a minute, then produces the keys to his sports car. "Happy can drive me. Wanna take this hot little number home?"

Steve's about to say, Sure, that's fine. But then Tony's kissing him, close and warm, tongue easing over Steve's lips and into his mouth. Hands wandering over Steve's ribs and squeezing his backside. The keys jangle from where they're looped around Tony's thumb.

So all he manages is a soft, "Mmhmm."

"Shareholder meetings are boring as shit," Tony says, fingers resting in the crook of Steve's elbow. His lips are wet. "I'll text you."

* * *

Steve stops by his apartment to change his clothes and grab his gym bag. When he makes it to the mansion, Clint's around back shooting strange-looking targets. They're scuttling around on spidery metal legs. It's kinda unnerving.

"Huh," Steve says.

"My sentiments as well," Thor rumbles next to him. He's wearing jeans and a sleeveless shirt, larger than life and too solid to actually exist. Somehow managing to belong anyway. "I am unsettled at the manner in which they move."

"Tony build 'em?" Steve asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the wood railing of the deck.

"He did," Thor replies. "Your Anthony Stark is a master of his craft. I would have grave concerns, were his deeds or character at all questionable."

"It's true he'll never be one of the bad guys," Steve assures uncomfortably. _Questionable_ is caught in his head, and _deeds_. Character. Vile and dark, like a scratched record on repeat. "Where's your brother?"

"Loki is at rest," Thor says, a wrinkle creasing his brow. "The heat appears to tire him. He will stir within the hour to break his fast, however."

"I'm glad he's eating," Steve says. Across the yard, Clint's slipped up a tree, cat-quick. Hooked his knees around a branch, hung down to loose an arrow. Sweat gleams on his arms and a stretch of his belly where his shirt rides up. A target Steve didn't even see falls over dozens of yards away.

"I cannot know wholly the workings of his mind." Thor says. Then he turns and settles his big hands on Steve's big shoulders. "But it is good for us here. I owe you much, my friend."

Steve looks up into Thor's rain-blue eyes, too sincere and too full by half for this world. He eventually looks away. "You don't owe me anything, Thor. Just do what you came here to do and we'll call us even."

Thor lets his hands fall, looks back to the field. They watch Clint for a minute or two more in silence. Then Thor asks, haltingly, "Do you have a phrase in your language for—to be in the thrall of a thing of rare beauty? As when you set your eyes on a mountain just this side of dawn, perhaps, or uncover pure, unworked land. The ocean on a still day." He pauses thoughtfully. "Where you look upon a thing and it sets the blood arush in your veins and your spirit to soar. Do you take my meaning?"

In his art-student days, Steve read a book by a guy named Stendahl. He remembers: _As I emerged from the porch of Santa Croce, I was seized with a fierce palpitation of the heart (that same symptom which, in Berlin, is referred to as an attack of the nerves); the well-spring of life was dried up within me, and I walked in constant fear of falling to the ground._

"Not sure if there's a name for it," Steve says, squinting at Thor in the light. Sun's slowly creeping up overhead. "But I know what you're talking about. Happens to people when they see certain paintings, sometimes. Sculptures. Artwork they connect with on a deeper level than they expect."

_So beautiful you lose your goddamn mind_. He remembers trying to explain to Bucky, who'd laughed and laughed. Who'd cuffed Steve on the ear and called him a dummy, who'd fallen to his death a few years after.

Thor hesitates briefly. "On Asgard, we have a fairytale about a child with soot-black hair and ice-white skin. I have always found the contrast to be arresting."

Steve tries not to think about Bucky anymore, or Peggy or Howard or _Tony_. How the most important people in his life could've been painted from the same rich, earthy browns and pale creams. With only a hint of red or blue, here or there, for accent.

Maybe Steve never woke up. Maybe this's all in his head, the hallucination of a dying brain. It's just wearing a different costume whenever it makes the rounds.

Voice kinda tight, he asks if Thor's thinking of anyone in particular.

"It is a story only," Thor says, patting Steve on the shoulder again. "It matters not how often or how well it is told. Nor even how many come to accept it as truth." He looks sad. "It will never be real."

Thor doesn't say anything else 'til Loki comes out to stand quietly beside him. Steve's thinking about how fairytales are just lies people made up for their kids, how they just seem real when you're little, when you believe them. There was a girl across the street from Steve's grandma's house, all those years ago, whose dad used to beat up on her. She was never rescued by a prince. Bucky never got to be a swashbuckling pirate lord.

Only Steve grew up to be what he wanted. He wonders if _Steve Rogers_ was a story that came true, or if maybe it was a story he just became. Then he realizes it's neither, 'cause Captain America's a legend: Steve Rogers is just the guy that got swallowed up. When the legend got too big.

Thing is, he can be Captain America better than anybody. He knows this. But he can't quite remember, in this new day and age, how to be plain old Steve Rogers. Thinks, sometimes, how maybe Steve Rogers was never real at all.

"You have done well," Thor is saying to Loki. "He hesitates rarely. His aim is true."

"It was nothing more than I owed him," Loki murmurs, eyes on Clint's precise, spare movements. "As now we are allies. I believe I have, in this regard, a great many debts to settle."

"It is not about debts, brother."

Steve looks over at Loki, notices his ashen face and the lethargic angle of his torso. The lines of exhaustion around his eyes. Makes Steve wonder about ice-white skin and soot-black hair.

In that instant, he thinks: There are two Norse gods standing next to me.

One's half in shadow, one's half in sun. There's a kinda opposite symmetry to their coloring, to their bearing, to their history. A kinda truth to their story, and here they stand: larger than life, picked out in gold and ebony and sapphire and emerald. Wearing simple human clothes with the dignity of ancient kings.

If they can be so real, Steve can be real, too.

* * *

Steve runs into Natasha on the way back from the bathroom. She looks like she's just rolled outta bed, her hair tied loose and messy at the back of her neck. She smells warm and sleepy. She's wearing an old gray sweater. There's something familiar about _how_ she is, if not who. A small thread of nostalgia uncurls in Steve's chest. He can't place what he's missing.

"Hey, Cap. Word on the street is you decided to keep us," she says. She doesn't actually touch him, but she walks pretty close. It's a moment or so before he realizes she's fallen into step with him, the way she walks with Clint.

"Well. It's hard to be a spy when you're a famous superhero," he says.

She shoots him a look of approval. She's almost smiling.

Clint's in the kitchen when they get back, explaining about toasters and frozen waffles to Loki. He's also trying not to laugh, and Loki looks kinda pissed off.

"Brother," Thor's saying patiently, "you simply press the lever—"

"I know how to _use_ the device, Thor!" Loki growls. His eyes smoulder like green flames. "I am inquiring as to its _construction_. I wish to know how it _operates_."

"Like I said, you just put the waffles in the slots," Clint explains, straight-faced, "and then you push the button, and then breakfast happens. Earth magic."

Loki rounds on him, " _You_ —"

Steve gets a hand on Loki's sharp shoulder. "It runs on electricity. It's made outta metal and plastic and you plug it into to the wall to get power. It heats up metal wires that cook your food."

Jaw tight, Loki turns his head slightly. "I appreciate your explanation, Captain." His shoulders go down, and Steve drops his hand. Clint openly snickers, but Loki only rolls his eyes.

"Now that we've all been properly shamed by Steve's superior knowledge of modern electronics," Natasha says dryly, reaching around Thor for a mug. "Is there coffee?"

To Steve's right, Clint snags the mostly-full pot. He's close for a few bare seconds, smells like sunlight and green trees. "There is coffee," he greets, and pours her some with steady hands.

When Loki moves on to the microwave, Natasha explains the settings without actively trying to rile him up. Thor looks on, bemused.

"So. About you getting us out from under SHIELD," Clint's leaning against the counter, eating a plain waffle with his fingers and watching the others with interest. "You mean anything by it?"

Steve studies him in profile, brows knit together. "Mean anything?"

Clint's quiet for a minute, and it suddenly hits Steve that he hadn't even _asked_ them. He'd just wanted them out, wanted their loyalties clear. Wanted it to be okay to trust them. Officially. 'Cause he already does.

Then he remembers their last handler was probably Coulson, like Tony said.

I've gotta start thinking about other people, he tells himself bitterly. Tony thinks about other people, tries to be careful with them. When he's an asshole, it's 'cause he chooses to be. At least he's honest about it: he never _backs into_ hurting someone like Steve sometimes does.

He should've asked. Clint and Natasha, they might not even _want_ him.

"I just like to know where I stand," Clint says, amiably enough. "Are you giving us back when you're done tiptoeing around SHIELD?"

Steve tries to understand where this is going. Thinks he gets it, a little. "Clint."

"What?" Clint's watching Thor ask a question about power levels, studying the sharp interest in Loki's eyes. Listening to the flat, patient tones of Natasha's answer.

"Look at me."

Clint hesitates, then pulls his gaze away from Loki's curious gestures. He meets Steve's eyes, solid and sure.

"It's not about convenience." Steve says firmly. "It's about how roughed-up Natasha was the other night when Fury sent her over here. It's about how I never know if you're in New York or goddamn South America, and no one tells me when you've been injured." He tries to keep the anger outta his voice, 'cause it's not an issue anymore: they're _his_ now, not SHIELD's or Fury's or the Council's. He's got the paperwork to prove it, and that means something, these days. "You guys are mine. For as long as you wanna be."

Something flashes in Clint's eyes, complicated and focused. Heavy, even. He reaches over and squeezes Steve's wrist with intent, but all he says is, "You got it, Cap."

Fifteen minutes later, when everyone's more or less sitting and eating at the kitchen table, Steve's phone goes off. It's a muffled vibration in his pocket, but to Steve's ears it sounds like a damn buzzsaw. Irreverent and annoying. With a strange coil of anticipation in his gut, Steve fumbles for his phone.

Clint and Natasha, who've chosen to sit on either side of Steve and talk over him, drop their conversation about American-make firearms versus Russian.

"I gotta take this," Steve says stiffly, glancing at the screen.

"You can text at the table," Clint says, mouth sticky with fruit. "We all do it. Hot date tonight?"

Steve's stomach twists anxiously.

"It's from Stark," Natasha says curiously, shameless about peering over Steve's shoulder. "Why is he messaging you from his lab?"

"No, he's—at work. Stark Industries. There's a meeting today."

Over the silence that follows, he hears Thor tell Loki, "I will make inquiries." His voice is unusually gentle.

Loki's reply is soft and sharp. "Do not trouble yourself on _my_ behalf, Thor."

Steve clears his throat. Natasha thoughtfully chews her mouthful of toast while Clint sips his orange juice. He sets down the glass without a sound.

"So," Steve says. "I'm gonna. I'll be back in a minute."

"Sure thing, Cap," Clint says brightly.

Steve doesn't look back as he exits into the hall, but his shoulderblades itch. Like he's got two sets of eyes following him out.

He wonders if there're implications here he doesn't understand. He hasn't quite got his head wrapped around texting yet, and there's a snag of fear, deep in his gut, that Tony's gonna give them away. That someone's gonna put two and two together, 'cause Tony can't be subtle to save his life.

Steve sighs. At least Tony's been working on the—well, the hit-list. There really isn't a better word for it. He can focus on that for now, deal with the rest of this mess later. He reads the message.

_What are you wearing?_

Jesus christ. Subtle. Sure.

Steve texts back, _Clothes_.

After a minute or so, Tony replies, _Fascinating. You should tell me all about them._

Before Steve can respond, he gets two more messages: _I think I found what we're looking for in the SHIELD databases. Also I bought us tickets to go see Wicked._

_I thought you were in a meeting_.

_Sort of_ , Tony texts.

Steve sighs. He doesn't envy whoever it falls to, making sure Tony actually runs his company. Then he realizes it's probably Pepper. And that he flat-out _covets_ what she has.

Tony doesn't explain what _sort of_ means. He mostly just wants to talk about having dinner again, maybe seeing a movie. Like it's something they're allowed to do, going around together. It makes Steve feel fond and furious. Guilty and exhilarated. Warm and afraid.

Eventually Steve just types out, _Call me later_. Hardly thirty seconds after he hits _send_ , he gets back: _As soon as I get done with this fucking circus_.

He's putting his phone away when it finally hits him. He can call it whatever he wants: a bad decision he's gotta get past or a series of one-night stands with the same man. But no matter what angle you look at it from, Steve Rogers is dating Tony Stark.

* * *

Back in the kitchen, Natasha's reading a book. Steve's thinking about what people do versus what they want, what they say they want. He's beginning to tie himself into another hopeless knot. But the sunlight flashes on her bright hair, casts her face in shadow. Reminds him. "I've been meaning to ask. Natasha. Would you mind if I painted you?"

She looks up, startled for the first time he's ever seen. Then she tilts her head thoughtfully. "Nude?"

"No! No, I mean," Steve clears his throat uncomfortably, hoping to hell his face isn't as hot as it feels. "I just meant. A portrait."

"Hmm," Natasha says, glancing down at her book again. It's thick with yellowed pages, written in a language Steve doesn't know. "When?"

"Doesn't matter," Steve says. He's got a lotta time on his hands.

"Well," she says, carefully marking her place. "I'm not doing anything right now."

Natasha drives. Steve doesn't know if the car's hers or Tony's, but she operates it with a spare, efficient hand. It's the opposite of flashy, but she goes just as fast as Tony does.

When they get to Steve's apartment, Natasha rummages in the fridge while Steve opens the curtains. The living room gets good light in the middle of the day, so that's where he sets up his easel and watercolors. When he goes to fill up a jar with some water, Natasha's not in the kitchen anymore. He finds her in the spare room, looking at his practice piece.

"This is lovely," she says when he joins her. Her brows are knit together, drawing a fine wrinkle above the bridge of her nose. "I like the teal you've worked into the highlights."

"It's just practice," Steve explains. "There's a little bit of everything in there."

"You've really captured the skyline," she murmurs.

Back in the living room, she settles herself on the couch. "How do you want me?"

"You gotta cut that out," Steve says, smiling awkwardly, and Natasha smiles too. It's a rare one, full and beautiful and real. It lights up the room. "You'll give a old man a heart attack."

"I'll take that under advisement." She tucks her hair behind her ear, and Steve paints her just like that.

He uses red and orange with burnt umber for the shadows, the natural white of the canvas for the highlights. Thin washes, just like before, letting the pigment build up in the hollows of her throat and the curl of her hair.

He's just picking out her eyes in careful aquamarine when his phone rings. He leans up, stiff, and realizes he's been painting for two hours.

"Wanna take a break?" Steve asks, realizing with a guilty start that Natasha hasn't moved a muscle this whole time. Then he figures it's not the most difficult thing she's ever done, her line of work. The thought's not comforting.

"Sure." Natasha shrugs, stretching out the kinks in her lean body. The sun's moved some, but it still catches soft and smooth on her cheek, flashing bright in her eyes. He knew she was beautiful, objectively, but he's not sure it ever really sunk in before.

"You're not having an illicit affair," Clint says over the line, "with my best girl, are you?"

It takes Steve a minute to get over the cold weight in his stomach, to get over the words and catch up with the voice. "Not today," he replies evenly. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Well, we're not sold separately," Clint jokes, and a small smile tugs at Steve's mouth.

"It's mostly done," Steve tells him. "I can finish the rest on my own."

"Is that Clint?" Natasha says, sipping a glass of pineapple juice. She comes up close near Steve's shoulder. "I can be at the gym in half an hour."

"I got my workout in this morning," Clint points out.

"Well, you're getting a bit fat," Natasha says lightly. Her hair brushes against Steve's jaw. In his ear, Clint snorts.

"But you were right about the painting," she continues. "Do you think he'll give it to us?"

"The practice one?" Steve asks, confused. Then he figures Clint saw it the day they went to the zoo. He probably had plenty of time to wander around the apartment. Steve doesn't know how he feels about that. But it's not like he's got any secrets here.

"I'm prepared to offer explicit favors and funds from dubious sources," Clint says.

"If you say it's not for sale," Natasha adds, "we will probably end up stealing it."

Steve gives up and hands her his phone. "Tell you what," he says, "it's all yours."

"Mission accomplished," she says to Clint, playful in a deadpan kinda way. Steve wonders if maybe he's bit off more than he can swallow with these two.

* * *

After Natasha leaves, Steve spends another hour or so sharpening the details on her portrait. He increases the contrast, gives the highlights a kinda polished, porcelain look. Gives the shadows almost a grimy cast, hints at fissures and cracks, residual darkness.

He recognizes that it's beautiful, but studying it summons a black lick of nostalgia—the bad kind. It comes outta left field, twists up tight in his belly and his ribs. Fills the whole room 'til there's nothing left but hard, gray angles. He forces himself through the motions: setting the portrait to dry in the spare room where the practice painting was, changing into more comfortable clothes. Walking down the block to the gym, one foot firmly in front of the other, so he can work through the knot of despair in his chest with his fists.

It usually helps, exertion. But sometimes nothing helps.

He gets home around seven. Thinks about making dinner but doesn't quite get around to it. He's not one to let himself go hungry, but he can't summon the energy to get off the couch.

The problem with the portrait is it says, This is the functional surface, but this is the damage beneath.

Steve's been losing people for a long time. He wonders how he's supposed to forge all these relationships when he knows how the story ends. There's real anger behind the thought, desperate and heavy and black. There's Natasha from that Boston mission, and Clint possessed, and Thor in a snarl of blood and armor. There's Bruce outta his mind, irretrievable.

There's Tony in every way Steve can imagine: his heart gone out, or falling from the sky, or drowning. His suit crushed around his body in gleaming crimson and gold. His fast cars, how he skips meals and drinks too much.

Last night Tony said, _I know what it means to follow someone around, hassle them about eating. Check on them, make sure they're okay when they're spending too much time alone._

Steve feels like he's underwater. It settles around him, a heavy mantle; strangles him like layers of clothing caught up in the current. Weighing him down.

He moves without thinking, boots up his laptop. Types into the search engine, _Phil Coulson SHIELD obituary_.

It's sparse and no one Steve knows is mentioned. He searches Bucky after that, then Howard. His high school art teacher, the girl from his grandmother's neighborhood. Most of the members of the Commandos. His old barber.

It puts their lives and deaths in neat little boxes, takes away what Steve remembers about each and replaces it with short, uninteresting biographies of things he didn't even know. Makes strangers outta people he loved, bookended by two empty dates.

He scrolls through pages and pages of ghosts 'til almost three in the morning. Like digging at a splinter, he can't make himself stop. These awful, colorless collections of trivia—they remind him of a time he was sure he existed. Even if he's slowly fading into nothingness, this half of history.

* * *

Tony shows up the next morning, dead on his feet.

"Tower's done," he mumbles, shrugging outta his wrinkled suit jacket. It crumbles to the floor. It's probably worth more than Steve's Stark Industries cellphone. "We can move in today. You don't have to live here anymore."

There are heavy, sleepless bruises under his eyes. There's a streak of black on his dress slacks, spattered over his cream-colored button-down. He fumbles unsteadily with his shoes 'til Steve steers him over to the couch.

"Here, let me," he mutters, getting down on one knee. Tony stares dimly at him, then settles back against the cushions. It's weird to have him so quiet. Steve unties his shoes, pulls 'em off one at a time. Peels off Tony's socks, gives his calf a squeeze before standing back up. "Rough night?"

"The roughest," Tony sighs. He touches Steve's wrist. "I didn't make it to the meeting. Pepper was furious. Also tore me a new one about a contract I may or may not have neglected to sign. I had to pull an all-nighter for the prototype."

Steve bends down to unbutton Tony's filthy shirt. He's not sure Tony notices. He thinks about how stupid it is, how Tony's got all this money and can't be bothered to eat or sleep like a regular human.

When Steve fumbles for the zipper around the hem of Tony's slacks, Tony goes still.

"Lift up," Steve says gently.

Tony peers at him blearily through dark lashes. Then, eyes hooded, he braces his body on his elbows and raises his hip enough for Steve to slide his pants off. He loosely kicks them away from his bare ankles, then slides his arms around Steve's neck.

He smells like machine oil, stale cologne, and caffeine. He's warm. "I missed you," he says quietly.

Steve kisses him, 'cause there's no helping it. Tony goes boneless against him. It's so easy. It's this beautiful lie: how they have each other when they don't. How they gotta steal every minute of it.

Tony's down to his undershirt and his boxers, and Steve supposes that'll do. So he hauls Tony off the couch with an arm around his waist and puts him to bed.

"Your turn?" Tony asks, pawing at Steve's shirt, but Steve catches his hand. Presses a quick kiss to his dry knuckles.

"Not right now. Lie down, Tony." He pulls back the sheets.

"Oh," Tony huffs accusingly. "I see what you're doing. You fight dirty, Rogers."

"You're not really trying unless you're trying to cheat." It's different, having someone in your own bed. Seeing Tony with his face buried in Steve's pillow, curled up in the place where Steve sleeps. He's never felt anything like it before.

"I am _scandalized_ ," Tony says. "You are destroying my fond childhood memories of the virtuous Captain America. He was a paragon of goodness. He did not lie or steal or take the Lord's name in vain."

"Probably shoulda thought of that before you started sleeping with him," Steve says.

"Speaking of sleeping. And not doing it." Tony leans up a bit, but Steve firmly pushes him back down. "I have a rental truck thing. We need to pack up your stuff. Moving day."

"My lease isn't up," Steve says, wondering if it's parked up on the curb like his sportscar was. Tony keeps sneaking his hands out from under the blankets.

"Sure it is," Tony replies. His hands flutter to Steve's neck, his chest. The angle of his jaw. His eyes hold steady on Steve's mouth, dark and hot.

"Unless someone's cancelled my contract without my knowledge or consent," Steve says coolly, grabbing Tony's wrists with gentle fingers, "I know for a fact it ain't."

"Right," Tony says. He looks uncertain. Then he says, "I need to, uh. Make a phone call."

Steve shakes his head. "Don't cause any more trouble." He gently pins Tony's hands above his head.

"Then we should pack," Tony says around a yawn, arching his back a little in a way that makes Steve's belly go hot. "They'll want their moving van back at some point."

"I'll take care of it. You get some rest." He leans down and presses a kiss to Tony's cheek. Except Tony turns his head, opens his mouth.

"I missed you," Tony whispers again, moments or minutes later.

"You said," Steve murmurs back. "I'll wake you up in a couple hours."

"Hey." His eyes are dark and serious. "I'll get better. About calling when I say I will."

"I'm not your boyfriend, Tony." Steve says, standing. "You don't owe me anything."

* * *

Alone in his living room, his few worldly possessions packed carefully in brown boxes and stacked in the corner of Tony's moving van, Steve experiences a hollow wave of apathy. It's important, saying goodbye. You don't always get to. But he's not gonna miss this place at all.

* * *

Stark Tower's not Stark Tower anymore. There's a giant _A_ at the top, and some stylistic choices that Steve's almost sure have everything to do with structural reinforcement. When they pull up to the front of the building to unload, there don't seem to be any handles on the doors.

"Like this," Tony says, pressing his hand against a flat, gray panel. The door slides silently open.

"Welcome home, Sir. Captain Rogers." JARVIS, polite as always. The lights go up gradually. "Shall I direct you to your quarters?"

"I can take care of him, Jay," Tony says. "Hold an elevator for us?"

"Of course, Sir."

Steve doesn't have much. Clothes, some books, some art supplies. He's not sure where SHIELD picked up the furniture or appliances, but anyway they weren't his. The only thing Steve really chose to keep is the laptop. It's StarkTech, which means it's probably on lend from Tony anyway.

"These gonna be offices?" He asks as they carry boxes into the waiting elevator. It only takes them a few trips.

"Yeah, probably for a law firm. They'll pay top dollar for the prestige of being associated with Stark Industries and the Avengers." He presses his hand against another gray pad. "And it won't hurt to have legal counsel downstairs. Cap's floor, Jay."

"Certainly," JARVIS replies.

Steve glances at numbers on the console. There's over a hundred floors. And right at the top, in a neat row, six multi-colored buttons.

"This is us," Tony says before Steve can get a good look. But when he steps into his new home, he forgets all about them.

It's not modern-looking or sterile, it's not made outta glass and metal with hardly any color. Instead, it's warm: lots of dark wood, lots of rich browns and gray-greens. Comfortable-looking furniture. A huge living space that opens up into a visible second level.

Without a word, Steve wanders out onto the oak floorboards.

Tony watches him, but doesn't follow as Steve explores. There are extra rooms on both levels. There's a kitchen when Tony said there wouldn't be. There's a rooftop patio outside a set of sliding glass doors, and a full-sized, in-ground swimming pool. There's a _library full of books_ , with a desktop computer and huge, round pillows on the floor. A lounge. An overstuffed chair. Next to the computer is one of Tony's tablets, except it's probably for Steve.

On the other side of the floor's a private gym, with all the weights he's used to mixed in with strength-training equipment he's never seen before. There's an indoor track. There's what look to be giant robot punching bags.

When Steve gets to the master bedroom, Tony follows him up.

The room's huge. The bed's huge. The master bathroom's huge. He knows there's high-tech stuff all over the joint, knows Tony wouldn't've been able to stop himself, but it doesn't _feel_ that way. It feels intuitive, maybe a little dated so Steve'll feel comfortable. Even if there's too much space for just him, everything he could want is right within reach.

He doesn't know how to thank someone for a gift like this. He feels like he could love it here, in this place Tony made just for him.

Tony touches his elbow, brings him back. "Is it okay?" He asks neutrally.

Steve swallows. "Yeah. It's okay, Tony."

Tony stares at him. "I don't, uh. You really—," he licks his lips. Reaches up and kisses Steve on the mouth, light and quick, barely-there. Then he ducks his head. "You know, I think I've only seen you smile like twice? Three times, max. It's. It looks really good on you. You should do it more."

Steve leans down and kisses him again, much slower. Cradles the back of Tony's skull, slides an arm around his waist.

Tony's gasping by the end of it. "Bed," he murmurs breathlessly. "Surprise for you."

"Shameless," Steve laughs, but Tony shakes his head.

"Really," he grins. "Look."

The comforter set's a rich gold, but Steve doesn't think anything of it 'til he pulls it back. The underside is crimson. Beneath it—

"Tony."

"Hmm?"

"Where did you find Iron Man sheets to fit a king-sized bed." He knows they make superhero sheets for kids, 'cause he's signed off on a couple Captain America products through SHIELD. But people gotta grow up sometime.

"Obviously they are a prototype for what will become a wildly popular product. We all have themed bed sheets."

Or possibly some people never grow up at all. Tony sits down on the bed, spreads his fingers over the fabric. Looks mightily pleased with his work, 'cause he's a damn kid. "Natasha has Hawkeye sheets and Clint has Widow sheets. Bruce has Iron Man sheets like you," he grins.

"Is this what you were doing all night?" Steve asks. Thinks, Is this why you didn't get any sleep?

Tony looks distantly guilty. "No. I was up working on a Stark Industries prototype, like I said this morning. I was working on the Tower yesterday afternoon. Upgrading JARVIS's security protocols, making the beds, installing StarkTunes. All things that had to get done."

"Why didn't you go to the meeting?" Steve asks. He doesn't let Tony pull him down onto the bed.

"Well. I did, except. I thought it was here? I ended up in the wrong place."

"Where were you supposed to be."

"What's with the twenty questions, Cap?" Tony asks impatiently. "I was supposed to be in LA. I wasn't. So no meeting."

"You—were you supposed to meet Pepper?" Steve takes a step back from the bed. He's got an image in his mind of a beautiful dame waiting for a plane to land. It never comes. It makes him sick.

"Well yeah," Tony says. "I don't know why she bothered, I've never made it to a meeting she didn't drag me to."

Steve clenches his teeth.

"So we argued about that, I got mad and hung up, then I went to the tower to finish installing JARVIS." He pushes his hand back through his messy hair. "She called about the prototype a few hours later. I finished it about six this morning and flew it over to her—"

"You _flew it over to her_?" Steve explodes, unable to frame this story in _any_ context where everything that goes wrong isn't completely Tony's fault. Flying after being awake for twenty hours—he could've gotten himself _killed_. And for what, 'cause he doesn't pay attention to what's going on in his own damn life?

"Why are you _angry_ ," Tony snaps, his face going hard. "It happens. Sometimes I'm late, sometimes I don't make it. You don't have to look at me like I'm some kind of horrible person, Rogers."

No, Steve thinks, disgusted. Not horrible. Just the worst kinda selfish.

"If you follow the fucking tabloids, I'm drunk when I bother to show up at all, or perpetually on my way to or from an _orgy_. This is not new!"

"How can you forget you're supposed to be on the other side of the damn country!"

Furious, Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. He's not wearing the crumbled, filthy suit from last night. He's got on a pair of Steve's sweats, one of Steve's t-shirts. Steve's gotta fucking quit this.

He doesn't even try to soften the accusation in his voice. "How can you treat someone like that, Tony."

"What the fuck, Rogers," Tony spits. "Why are you so worried about Pepper? You're the one that's _fucking_ me."

Steve almost hits him. He feels the flash of heat in his face and neck, sees his vision go red. His fingers creak with the force behind his clenched fists.

Tony doesn't move. He just stares Steve down like he's daring him to throw the goddamn punch.

So Steve says, "Yeah. I _am_ fucking you, Tony. And I gotta tell you, I can't come up with a single reason why."

Something snaps in Tony's face, something Steve didn't even know was on the verge of breaking.

Steve swallows the fury grinding caustic and hot in his lungs. He just wants to get outta here, go anywhere else. Some things you don't say, even when they're true.

But Tony lurches forward, twists his fingers around Steve's wrist. Doesn't let go when Steve jerks away. He tightens his grip and hangs his head and _doesn't let go_.

"I deserve that," he says softly. His voice falls completely flat, almost monotone. Steve's never heard it sound like this before. "Pepper's too good for me. You're too good for me. Please don't leave."

If Steve walks away now, he'll never have to walk away again. It'll be rough, trying to work with Tony after this, but they could do it. They're all adults. If Steve leaves it this way, he could finally crawl out from under the guilt that's been crushing him for months. He could stop being selfish. He could let Tony go and get on with his life.

"Please," Tony says.

Steve's bones feel rigid, outta place. Brittle like ice. He stays.

Slowly, slowly, Tony uncurls his fingers 'til his hand falls away. "Pepper is my best friend," he says dully to Steve's chest. He doesn't look up any higher than that. "When she finds out I've been cheating on her, she'll leave me. I don't know if she'll leave my company, I don't know if she'll cut all ties with me, I don't know how bad it's going to be." There's a fissure in his voice, like the cracks in the bad parts of Natasha's painting. "I know I've handled this whole ordeal—pretty much the worst way I could have. I've made some terrible mistakes. I don't know what's going to happen."

Steve thinks hotly, We weren't supposed to keep this up. It didn't have to come to this. It didn't have to happen at all.

Steve says coldly, "Thanks for that. Good to know where I stand."

"That's not where I'm going with this!" Tony all but shouts, pushing himself to his feet. His fingers twitch, antsy and restless, but he doesn't touch Steve again. "If you'd just shut up for a second and _listen_ to me _—_ "

"I've _been_ listening, Tony! You love Pepper, you can't live without her, but you're _cheating on her with_ _me_. I'm not here to justify your guilt! You can't just—"

"You don't under _stand_ ," Tony rages, "I—"

Steve reaches for him, caught up in his anger, consumed in a way he's never been. He grabs Tony's wrists, makes Tony inhale sharply and bare his teeth. "So _make me understand_ ," Steve commands. Then, softer, "'Cause I'm really trying to."

Tony stares at him, desperate and frustrated, at odds with what to say. Steve remembers, in this moment, how hard he had to fight just to get to know him at all. To get to a point where he even recognizes how it looks: Tony struggling to explain himself.

Steve takes a breath. Then he says gently, "I like to have a plan of attack before jumping outta planes, Tony."

There's a long pause where Tony's face goes white, then flushes red. He sorta snorts. Then he starts laughing, choked and strained. Slides to his knees with his face in his hands, howling.

Steve kneels down next to him, gets an arm around his back. It's really that easy.

"You must think," Tony hiccups, "that I'm batshit-fucking-insane."

"Not the exact description that comes to mind," Steve replies, settling his palm over Tony's spine. "But yeah, for sure."

Tony rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. Then he leans into Steve. "I'm leaving Pepper for you, Cap," he says firmly. "I guess I never said."

The bottom drops outta Steve's stomach.

"I haven't slept with her since I started sleeping with you. I don't know how to end things with her. It's not like I can just stop returning her calls." He looks down at his hands. "Breaking up with my girlfriends used to be her job."

"You're awful," Steve says, shaking his head. He touches Tony's hand gently. Lets it sink in that Tony's only been with him since they started; that Tony was, in his own way, almost faithful. There's a sweetness and a bitterness here: how maybe Steve _means_ something to Tony. How isolated Pepper must feel, without even knowing why.

"I know I am. She runs my company and she lives with me and I love her so, so much." Tony sighs. "After we went for coffee—at that outdoor cafe? I guess I was waiting for you to show your cards. Make a move, maybe. But you never did, and you got angry when _I_ did, but. You didn't stop me."

"No," Steve answers soberly. "I didn't."

"So, look," Tony says, shifting uncomfortably. "My knees are getting stiff on this floor. Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

Steve can feel the muscle in his jaw stretch and ache. "Tony, as far as Pepper knows you're still marrying her." He hates how Tony's this kinda person, able to offer Steve something he badly wants at the expense of someone else.

But then Tony says, "Pepper and I aren't engaged, Steve." His eyebrows wrinkle together. "Did you think that? Not that it matters, we're in a committed relationship and I'm definitely cheating on her, but."

Steve looks up, feeling kinda dumb. He'd just assumed, 'cause they're living together.

"Anyway," Tony says casually, sliding his fingers through Steve's, "I'd rather marry you."

Steve takes a moment to process this. Finds that he actually can't. "I need to be alone for awhile," he says stiffly, climbing to his feet.

Something passes over Tony's face, dark and too quick to read. "I, ah. Is something wrong?"

"What's wrong," Steve says evenly, "is we're having an affair. What's wrong is we're moving in together with our friends and your _girlfriend_." Maybe he sounds bitter, but he won't be a damn placeholder 'til the next best thing comes along. You can't just trade people around. "What's wrong is you saying you wanna _marry_ me when you haven't even left her yet."

Tony's earnest, complicated expression slowly shuts down. Piece by piece, like he's boarding up the windows of an abandoned house. "So you don't want to be with me."

Steve's heart races, stilted and sharp. "It's not about that. You can't make decisions like this on your own."

"What other decision is there?" Tony asks, voice like a whip. "I can't stay with Pepper after I've been with you. I can't keep stringing her along when I'm not in love with her. And if you—if you don't want to be with me, I—I regret that, but I'm still leaving her. I have to. Steve, if you just—"

"Apologies, Sir," JARVIS says over the intercom, "but Colonel Fury is on the line. He says it is a matter of urgency."

"We are not done here," Tony whispers desperately as Fury patches in.

Steve's just thinking, We aren't even together and we're already penciling in arguments. These are all the worst parts of a relationship.

Then he has to bark a startled, "What?"

Impatiently, Fury repeats: " _Loki is destroying Central Park_."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _While he's never believed you walk around with half a heart 'til you meet someone who fits, he's prepared to accept that maybe they do things different on other planets. That's what watching them feels like, to him: changing your mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor updates/corrections as of 2013AUG21.

Thing is, Loki killed upwards of a hundred people last time he was on the loose. So while Central Park doesn't really rank on the worst-case-scenario list, Steve's got no idea what they'll be walking into. That's the rough part, the not knowing.

But then Fury goes offline and Steve gets a look at Tony's face.

"Loki's attacking the city?" Tony repeats, bewildered. Then his expression hardens.

Steve frowns. "You don't think—?"

"What?" Tony bites out, all the warmth gone outta his eyes. They're the color of old brick, downcast so the light can't touch them, turn them gold. "That we're harboring an alien fugitive who's out butchering the general populace? That doctoring up those SHIELD files was a waste of my time?" He turns away stiffly, disappears inside the bedroom closet for a second or two. It's a lot bigger than the one at the Brooklyn apartment, and it makes Tony sound far away. "That I'm still a shitty judge of character at forty-fucking-five? Pick one, Rogers. Pick anything."

Steve shakes his head firmly, even as his heart sinks. "We don't know the situation yet."

"The situation," Tony says nastily, emerging with a blue bundle in his arms, "is that Loki's a pathological liar, criminally insane—"

"Tony. We gotta go," Steve tells him. "What's—"

"Armor," Tony says shortly.

"In the van with my shield." Steve moves forward, snags his elbow. "We need to get you to Iron Man."

"Cool your jets, creampuff," Tony snaps, his body a jumble of tight, frustrated angles. He shoves the bundle into Steve's arms. "Here. Welcome home."

It takes Steve a second or two to process what he's looking at: a new Captain America uniform. Upgraded with all the bells and whistles, looks like. He wonders where Tony found the time to make it. "Where are you going?" He asks, glancing up again.

"Suit up," Tony calls over his shoulder. His face could be carved from smooth stone. "I'll meet you on the roof."

* * *

Steve's never actually flown with Tony before. He kinda wishes he had, even in short bursts, before being hauled across the city a thousand feet in the air.

Through the dizzying height, the thrill of adrenaline in his wrists and chest, and the wet chill of the atmosphere, Steve tries to stop feeling like he's about to fall. But Iron Man's voice is distant and tinny and flat when he even bothers to speak, and the arms around Steve's chest are stiff and utilitarian. A steely cage with the bottom cut out. So Steve feels like he hasn't got a solid place to stand.

The air whips around them, tearing at his arms and face and legs. Buildings roll by in staggered streaks, blocky and blurred like an ugly impressionist painting. Too crammed together to get the details right, too muddy to showcase the otherwise beautiful colors of New York City at the height of summer.

Tony's spotlight-bright attention, once it's off you, leaves you cold. It's a new experience for Steve—he's never had to miss someone he was physically _with_ before. But he's got a lot to think about, figures they both do.

He presses his face into the crook of Iron Man's neck, knowing Tony can't feel it. Closes his eyes, holds on.

* * *

Central Park's a damn warzone. Steve's seen enough to know.

Trees are torn up by their roots, pale and splintered like broken bones. There's an endless swathe of mud from where the Reservoir's broke open like soft tissue, wet and dark, leaking all along its rocky banks. The water seethes outta fissures in the stone edging like blood outta burst veins.

"Jesus Christ," Iron Man hisses. The lake's dotted with hundreds of pale, belly-up fish. Ducks, bloated and waterlogged, lose their feathers in oily clumps. Steam rises from the murky surface, opaque and foul-smelling with death. "How can—how is the Reservoir _boiling_!"

"Status," Steve barks into his communicator.

After a few moments of half-quiet white noise and Steve's own pulse in his ears, Black Widow responds. "Loki's on the Great Lawn," she says tersely. "Dead center. Hawkeye's got a bead on him from the roof of the Met, and I'm just off 85th. We haven't made contact."

"Thor and Bruce?" Steve asks, frowning at the poor connection. When he turns his head, Iron Man's standing close beside him, staring at the black clouds that race across the sky.

"Absent," she says.

Steve purses his lips. "Civilians?"

"No reported casualties so far, but visibility is poor."

Steve looks up at the sky too, studies the dark clouds churning over each other. The wind's picking up, dragging fallen branches and leaves over exposed soil. A section of tarp torn from a hotdog vendor flaps wildly like a wounded bird, fills the air with dust and dirt.

"Hold position," he tells her, throat tight. He hopes to a god he's not sure he believes in that everyone made it outta here okay. Then he realizes gods are probably what got him into this mess in the first place. Figures he oughta leave well enough alone. "You see anyone, you pull 'em out."

"Got it," she says.

"Iron Man, can you—?"

"I'll get an aerial. If you head in from nine o'clock—"

"We can back him up against the Turtle Pond, right."

"Right." Iron Man vanishes into the air just as the first fat drops of rain start to fall.

Five minutes later, Steve's soaked to the bone and circling the mangled softball fields. There's garbage all over the grounds, battered scraps of painted sheet metal, piles of crushed stone from either of the schists. A hot, heavy wind curls lazily through the air like an invisible leviathan.

The comm crackles sharply. Iron Man's voice comes through in pieces: "No idea how Hawkeye's gonna get a clear shot with all this shit flying around—"

"You just worry about your ham fists and your brute force," Clint says amicably. It's the first time he's spoken, and Steve's irrationally relieved to hear his voice. "Leave the detail work to me."

"I'll have you know—"

"Iron Man. Visual." Steve commands. He knows Tony doesn't respond well to authority, but Steve's got a whole laundry list of things he could've handled better in his life. They haven't got time for kid gloves right now.

"I'm assuming he's in the goddamn crater in the middle of the goddamn field," Tony snaps. "But unfortunately, what with all the interference I'm getting from the fog coming off the _boiling lakes_ —"

"And all the dust in the air," Clint mentions. "And the rain."

"—huge fucking _storm clouds_ —"

"I see him," Steve says suddenly. He's come to the edge of a great depression in the earth, as if Loki fell from the moon, as if he weighed thousands of pounds when he hit. The air seems too full, seems to be buzzing and sparking—seems dark and filthy, twisting in on itself like a tropical storm. Loki's barely visible, but unmistakable.

Steve gets his shield up and starts climbing down into the crater.

"Cap—," Iron Man says tentatively. Steve looks up on reflex. He catches the flash of gold and hot rod red through the dust clouds and debris, but only just. Feels like he's trapped beneath a frosted-glass bowl, overturned, maybe full of smoke on the inside.

"You stay outta range," Steve growls, biting back a grunt as a thick branch knocks him in the ribs. "You stay in the sky."

"Right, but, the thing is, I can't—"

"That's an order," Steve says firmly. "Follow it." He picks his way through the gouges in the earth, maneuvers over the broken remains of roughly half a forest. Ducks under his shield as a jagged length of chain link fence scrapes over him, tangles briefly, passes on.

"Steve," Tony hisses in his ear. "The fucking _tornado_ you're crawling into is _almost completely black_ —"

"What I believe Iron Man means to say," JARVIS delicately interrupts, "is that, due to environmental factors, he is not confident in his ability to provide adequate support from his current position. He would respectfully request relocation, preferably to somewhere in your immediate vicinity, Captain."

"I don't need a goddamn translator—," Tony growls, but the rest is lost over the sounds of a tree breaking and scattering around Steve. The rain thunders down, heavy and hard, and decorative stones fall like hail against his shield. There's a concussive force buffeting at his entire body, turning his heels to lead, hitting him like the opposite of gravity.

"—mospheric anomalies," Widow's saying when his world's quieted some. "Thor has some control over the weather. It might be a god thing."

By the time Steve's close enough to really take a look at Loki, he feels like he's gonna be swept off the ground, like the wind could catch his shield like a kite, fling him into the sky. Loki's facing away from him, solid as anything, hunched on his knees with his arms wrapped tight around his middle. The bony lines of his back picked out through the wet rags of his t-shirt. Even though Loki's not a small creature, he looks small now: beneath the broken angles of his shoulders and the utter stillness of his silhouette, he even looks human.

"You good, Steve?" Clint asks neutrally. He sounds clear as a bell, not a lick of static.

"Gimme a minute," Steve replies. He takes another step, pausing at the watery suction under his boots. He glances down. Meets his own eyes reflected back at him from a standing pool of blood.

"No," Tony says fiercely. "We will not give you a fucking _minute_ —"

The sick, cloying metal smell hits Steve hard, overwhelms him, makes him gag. "We need to get ahold of Thor," he rasps. "I don't think—he's not—"

"Steve," Tony presses, a thread of anxiety in his voice

"Cap," Natasha echoes quietly.

It's more blood than Steve's ever seen come out a person before. Loki's not moving...

" _Answer me_ ," Tony demands.

...and no casualties have been reported. Something clicks in Steve's head. "He's been attacked. He's—," bleeding out. Unconscious. Dead or dying.

"I can't fucking _see you_ ," Tony shouts in his ear. "I'm coming in!"

Steve glances up, but the sky's almost completely blocked out. Bits of light trickle through to where he stands alone with a—with a _dead god_ , there's no way Loki's not—how's he gonna tell _Thor_ —

Iron Man falls through the veil of darkness, but falters almost as soon as he comes into view. He's about five yards above the crater, buoyed and pitching in the wind. Here at the center, the loose dregs of Central Park spin around the three of them like a jagged, stuttering cage.

"Is that—," he asks haltingly, slowly touching down. The soft, mechanical sounds of the armor seem to echo in the dead space.

"Yeah." Steve firms his jaw, tightens his grip on his shield. Closes the final bit of distance to get a hand on Loki's shoulder.

Loki doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. But he trembles like a live wire, like there's a current twisting and howling inside him. Fighting to get out.

"Jesus," Steve breathes. "He's not—? Hawk, Widow, we need transport!"

"We can't get to you, Cap," Hawkeye says tightly. "Not until this shitstorm passes."

Tony, who's moved around to get a look at Loki's face, goes absolutely still. "Steve," he says, breathless and stunned, "oh _fuck_ , Steve, this is—"

Steve leans in close, angles his head over a broad, bony shoulder. Looks where Tony's looking. Takes in a rough breath.

Blood leaks from Loki's mouth in main force, collects in the angles of his collar bones, smears over his lips and jaw almost to his ears. Coats his hair in tacky clumps, streams dried and cracked from his nose. Sticky and dark in the grooves of his fingernails, the delicate creases in the flesh of his hands.

Cut open like an autopsy, his slippery wet guts spill out even as he struggles to hold them in. Blood flows over his arms in hot pulses, paints them red to his elbows.

The only clean things about Loki are the blank gems of his eyes, the tears that rinse his face in pale, solitary streaks.

"We need to tranquilize him," Tony says, an uneven scrape in his a voice. "If his magic's going haywire because he's—because he's in agony and can't control it—"

"I don't have any tranquilizers." Steve exhales, nauseated. He can feel bile rising in his throat.

"So knock him out." Hawkeye says, steady and practical.

"Will that work?"

"You have a vibranium shield," Natasha reminds him. Then: "Still no sign of Thor."

"Try Jane," Tony tells her.

"It makes sense that I would overlook the obvious," she deadpans.

"What about Bruce?" Tony tries helplessly, an edge of panic to his voice. "Bruce is a doctor, we could definitely use a doctor—"

"Shut up, Stark. We're doing all we can," Clint says. "Steve—bash Loki over the head. Do it now. Try not to kill him."

Iron Man glitters in the strained sunlight like dusty treasure, flashing clear and bright every time the shadows from Loki's storm pass him over. Tony's eyes are hidden, and the tight line of his mouth, but it doesn't matter. 'Cause Iron Man nods.

Steve raises his arm. Steve brings his shield down squarely on the back of Loki's head.

The wind surges, wild and raw.

Then, as if breathing out a stale lungful of air, the storm dissipates. Trees crumble from the sky, stones and trash and bits of bark. Someone's lawn chair, a catcher's mitt.

He doesn't realize 'til it's over, shield above his head as he cradles Loki's body, that Iron Man's bent protectively over them both.

When it's done, Loki limp in his arms, Steve carefully gets to his feet. Hauls up the long, rangy body like there's nothing left of it.

Iron Man's got a hand on Steve's shoulder, probably helped pull him to his feet. Steve doesn't even remember. "Can you," he asks bleakly.

'Cause he can, of course he can, Iron Man reaches out and gently takes the body. "He should be heavier. He weighs _five hundred pounds_ , why isn't—," he trails off, shaking his head. The distant sound of a jet engine curls toward them over the ruins of Central Park. "Come on, Cap. Let's—let's get this guy home."

* * *

"I am not qualified for this," Bruce says straightaway, raking his hands back through his hair. He looks exhausted, dressed in a bright green t-shirt and loose purple pajama pants. He looks like he just woke up. "I am not a medical doctor. There are intestines next to my spectrometer."

Natasha and Clint picked them up, Tony swearing low under his breath while Steve held a hand against Loki's abdomen. He did his best to keep everything in, to not lose his lunch in the process. A sharp twist in his gut reminds him that he hasn't actually eaten since breakfast, but he's—actually not interested in food right now.

Natasha's clearing off the lab table, including what's probably the spectrometer, while Clint follows behind and sterilizes the surface with a cloth and some rubbing alcohol. They are, perhaps, the most practical and efficient people Steve's ever encountered. He's so very glad they're his.

He still kinda wants to throw up though.

Bruce watches unhappily as Tony arranges Loki's unconscious body on the cold stainless steel. He's still in the armor, but his faceplate's up. "Jesus christ, Tony."

"I know," Tony says, looking up at him sadly. There's a cut on the bridge of his nose. "Sorry I'm such a shit friend. To be fair, you knew what I was like going into this."

Bruce shakes his head, jaw tight. But his eyes are soft on Loki's mangled form.

"JARVIS," Tony says.

"Running comprehensive analyses now, Sir. I would recommend Doctor Banner begin by washing his hands. I can direct placement of the lower intestines from there."

Tony goes white as a sheet. While Steve debates whether or not he could go to him without giving everything away, Clint beats him to it. He hooks Tony by the elbow and says, conversationally, "So yeah, let's get you out of this monkey suit. I need to touch base with Fury anyway."

"Sure thing, applebutter," Tony answers, voice distant. Clint leads him outta the room, fishing his phone from his pocket. Steve watches them go.

"We've got this, Cap," Natasha says, tying her hair back. A few strands lay against her pale neck, a too-familiar contrast of crimson and cream that makes him sick. There are wet patches on her SHIELD blacks. "You don't have to be here."

"It's fine," Steve says firmly. 'Cause this is the goddamn price: it could be any of them on the table. This what it could cost them. Steve would always rather know than not know. You can't help anything, ignoring it.

"Suit yourself," Natasha murmurs without inflection.

Bruce pushes up his sleeves, tugs latex gloves over his nervous hands. Stares blankly at Loki's sallow, shadowed face.

He lets out a long breath. "Ready when you are, JARVIS."

"Very good, Doctor Banner. If you look to your left, you will find a pair of scissors suitable for cutting polyblend fabric..."

It takes about two hours in all. Natasha trims away the ruins of Loki's shirt, then offers steady, silent assistance while Bruce very carefully tucks the organs back in place. There's about twenty-five feet of intestines, a liver and most of a stomach. Cartilage around the sternum where it was crushed in a couple places.

The room's thick with the smell of metal and salt as they work. Steve keeps his lips pressed tight together. There's a small graphic on Bruce's shirt that says _HULK, SMASH!_ that he stares at it when he's gotta look away. It warms him a little to see, 'cause Bruce hardly ever wears his own merchandise.

At one point Bruce says, despairing, "My hands are literally inside of his chest cavity, _how is he breathing_."

"Previous data suggests he will remain in stasis until his body stabilizes, at which point he will begin to heal rapidly," JARVIS replies crisply.

"Previous data?" Steve asks, raising his head to look at nothing.

"From his confrontation with Doctor Banner," JARVIS explains.

Bruce clears his throat. "It's true the guy can take a beating."

"Medical tape?" Natasha asks, looking up from where she's been arranging the cracked pieces of Loki's ribs around his lungs. Next to the stillness of her hands, the organs appear to be pulsing.

"In the cabinet above the sink," JARVIS tells her.

"Thanks," she says dryly.

"Of course, Agent Romanov."

They clean Loki up best they can, clinical and thorough, while Steve looks on. 'Cause he can't shake the feeling they're preparing a corpse for burial, he eventually looks away.

"I know he'll heal on his own," Bruce murmurs, shaking his head as Natasha slides an arm beneath Loki's broad, bony shoulders. They've bandaged him, wrapped him in a clean blanket 'cause he'd just bleed all over clothing. "With magic. But putting away his _guts_ without stitching them up first?"

"We stitched up the sections that were fully severed," she points out.

Bruce makes a face. "There is no way he isn't bleeding internally, Natasha. It doesn't make any sense."

"Magic," she says, shrugging. There's a bit of dirt on her cheek. Some blood on her wrist.

"While it is true his organs have suffered extensive trauma," JARVIS volunteers, "they are not hemorrhaging at this time, Doctor Banner."

"Who even knows how," Bruce mutters, gently scooping up Loki's long, limp legs.

"There is not enough blood remaining to do so."

"Fucking hell." Bruce sighs. He looks deeply uncomfortable, but his hands are steady as a drum.

Steve follows as they carefully take Loki to Thor's bedroom. Natasha rests her hand briefly on Bruce's back after settling Loki beneath the sheets. Then she turns to Steve.

"Get something to eat, Cap," she commands. Her eyes are hard, but by now Steve knows it's the kinda hard where she's trying to protect you. The kind where, if someone tells her you're lonely, she shows up and makes you take her out to lunch. He's not inclined to disobey.

She must be leveling a look at Bruce, too, 'cause Steve hears him on the way out: "I'm not hungry."

"You're always hungry."

"I think you mean the other thing," he huffs.

"No," is all she says.

Tony's in the kitchen, leaning back against his habitual cabinet. Clint, looking for all the world like a perched bird, sits on the counter with his legs crossed, peering over Tony's shoulder. They're studying something on a wide, bright tablet. They both look like they've showered, and the arc reactor glows through Tony's clean t-shirt like a teal sun behind a thin veil of cloud cover.

"Hey," Steve says awkwardly. "What are you guys doing?"

Clint glances up, his eyes catching a strange, ethereal blue from the screen. "Setting up a timeline, trying to piece together what the hell happened. Fury sent us what SHIELD was able to record, so we're corroborating stories for the press release, the official file, and the redacted file."

"What've you got so far?" Steve asks.

"A change of clothes for you," Clint says flatly. "You're covered in blood, get out of here."

Tony looks up then, his frown splitting into a grimace as he takes in Steve's appearance. "Second floor, first door on the left." He pauses. "Just, uh. Let your uniform soak in the tub for awhile when you're done. There's industrial-grade dish soap concentrate mixed in with the body wash, so throw some of that in, too."

Clint looks at him like he's nuts. "Dish soap, Stark? Weirdo."

"Dude, engine oil," Tony raises his eyebrows. "Seriously."

"Dude, I believe you," Clint parrots back, reaching around Tony's arm to slide his fingers across the screen. Then he glances up at Steve. "What you still doing here?"

"Natasha told me to eat something. She intimidates me," Steve says, shrugging. "Thought I'd bring something back for her and Bruce, too."

Tony snorts and Clint, rolling his eyes, hops down off the counter. "Go shower. I'll feed the animals." He sticks his head in the pantry, casts around. "Gimme twenty minutes and I'll bring you a sandwich or something."

Steve looks over at Tony, who glances curiously at Clint's back before meeting Steve's eyes again. Then he winks, flashes a wicked smile that goes straight to Steve's gut. "Room service, Barton?" He asks, expression at odds with his light tone. "Who do I have to blow to get on _that_ list?"

"You should be so lucky," Barton laughs.

* * *

Steve takes a shower in Tony's huge bathroom, stands under the water 'til the water runs clear. The heavy-duty body wash leaves his skin red and tender, but does the job. The only stains left are in his memory, and those aren't things you can just wash away.

He's just pulling on the pair of sweats he found on the bed when someone knocks at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Clint steps inside.

"So I have soup for you," he says, setting a plate and a bowl on Tony's desk. "Also grilled cheese."

Steve straightens, the t-shirt slung over his arm. "What kinda soup?"

Clint raises his eyebrows. "Tomato. Naturally."

Steve shakes his head. "My grandma used to make me that all the time," he says, when he means to say, Thank you. "Me and Bucky. Before she died."

"Mine, too," Clint replies. "Minus the Bucky part. There was only me, and I didn't stick around very long." His eyes narrow suddenly on Steve's chest. "The hell are those from?"

Steve glances down. He hadn't really taken a look at himself, getting outta the shower, but his torso's crossed over with mostly-faded bruises. He doesn't heal as fast when he doesn't eat. "The trees, probably. Maybe the chain-link fence," he says, pulling the shirt on over his head. It's a bit tight around his shoulders, but the fabric's warm and comfortable. Smells kinda like Tony.

"Stark's all banged up, too," Clint says, irritated. "If I didn't know better, I'd think he was running out on Pepper with the fucking Hulk. I don't know why he bothers with a padded undersuit at all, you should've seen the bruises on him."

Steve coughs soup outta his windpipe. Clint raises an eyebrow. "All right there, buddy?"

"Hot," Steve mumbles. "You really think Tony would—?"

Steve's saved from asking a very stupid, very telling question by the sound of thunder splitting the sky. Within moments, Thor's voice echoes through every hall.

"Party time," Clint sighs.

* * *

" _You will take me to him at once_." Thor commands. There's an undercurrent of heat, the crack and snap of restless, electric energy.

"Easy, big guy," Tony's saying. His hands are up, conciliatory and maybe defensive. He doesn't look afraid, though. "We need to go over a few things first."

"You mark my words, Stark," Thor says, voice gone cold as Steve's ever heard it. "If my brother draws his final breaths while we stand wasting ours—"

Natasha quietly and deliberately shifts her weight. She's not standing between Thor and Tony, but in half a lethal second she could be.

"Thor," Steve says gently. Thor turns, his face caught between the bottomless canyons of fury and grief. "Loki's alive. We've done all we can for him, and now we're working out what happened."

"You are ever my friend, Steve Rogers," Thor says thickly. His big shoulders dip, and the room suddenly seems a whole lot emptier.

Tony crosses his arms, like he doesn't know how to touch someone without baiting or teasing them. Like he's got no idea how you console somebody.

Steve meets Tony's eyes over Thor's bowed head, gives a short nod.

"This is what we've got," Tony says, holding up his tablet. For what it's worth, his tone's a little kinder. "Based on security footage, SHIELD intel, and JARVIS's tracking software—"

" _Tracking software_?" Natasha asks sharply.

"Obviously it's shit if I can't ever find anyone," Tony says pointedly, staring Natasha down like she couldn't kill him where he stands in seconds. He's either really brave or really goddamn stupid. "Just another example of R&D's incompetence and why I have to do everything myself—"

"Watch yourself, Stark," she warns. But she doesn't shift the protective stance of her body away from his.

Tony clears his throat. "So Clint's out back on the range, Bruce is in his room, Thor is MIA—"

"I misunderstand," Thor says weakly.

"We didn't know where you were," Tony clarifies impatiently. "Natasha's gone, I'm gone, Steve's gone. No one even knows Loki leaves."

Steve glances over at Bruce, who's hovering near the stove making tea. He's got six mugs set out and a big pot of water boiling. He looks pale and small. Steve asks him, "You didn't hear anything?"

"I was asleep," Bruce sighs, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The motion tilts up his glasses, loosens them. Makes him look frail and groundless. "Stoned out of my mind. An earthquake wouldn't have woken me up."

"I guess we should probably cut back on that," Tony mentions, mouth twisted in an unhappy line.

"Probably, yeah," Bruce says. "Don't worry about it. We knew it was a temporary solution."

Tony flashes Bruce a crooked smile, then turns back to the room at large. "As far as we can tell, there weren't any witnesses. He can teleport, so no one saw him getting from point A to point B. Also, that part of the Park was mostly deserted and the storm kicked up pretty much immediately." His lip twists. "We don't have any idea whether or not this was intentional, but it makes damage control easier."

"Fury's gonna go with unseasonable weather," Clint adds, "or, if it comes out that someone did see Loki, he'll say it was one of the weather or elemental mutants. Charles Xavier will back us if we say it was an accident during a training exercise. Public opinion of him is high, so his reputation wouldn't suffer nearly as much as SHIELD's might." He smiles humorlessly. It looks outta place on him. "Especially if word gets out Loki's back."

Steve's not all that comfortable with blatantly lying to the public, even less so if Charles would take the blame. But it's not like they have plans to announce Loki's new position within the Avengers, and most people wouldn't recognize him without the armor, the horns, or the spear. Far as New Yorkers are concerned, he's just another tall, dark-haired guy slinging magic.

Since that's a thing that happens these days. Steve's head hurts.

Tony nods. "While I think we can all agree that, superficially, this looks like Loki hitting up old habits again as soon as we turn our collective back—"

"You would _dare—_ ," Thor seethes, but Tony holds up a hand again and keeps talking.

"Hang on, hang on. I'm saying what it _looks_ like. We had the option of giving Loki over to SHIELD custody for medical treatment, but we didn't. I want you to understand why."

Thor looks at Tony for a long, quiet moment. Then he says, "SHIELD does not look kindly upon my brother."

"No," Natasha agrees.

"They would, perhaps, have little concern for his grievous injuries."

"Very little," Clint says, watching Thor with sharp eyes.

"And JARVIS has more data on you guys than SHIELD does," Tony says. "I can promise you that we did the best we could under the circumstances."

"Tell me what has come to pass," Thor says desperately, letting his shoulders fall. He looks brokenly at each of them. Steve's gotta fight not to look away.

"That's just it," Tony says, reaching over to take a mug of tea from Bruce's hands. He takes a long swallow. "There's no sign of a struggle. If he was fighting anyone, there isn't a fucking fingernail left of them." He takes another sip of his tea, forehead wrinkled in thought. Steve fights the urge to lean in and kiss it away. "There's only Loki and a bunch of dead fish."

Steve wishes Asgard would stop sending all their princes to him. He's doing a terrible job keeping them safe. He can still see Thor in his mind's eye, suspended in the air like a ragdoll on hooks; Loki, a hunched red mass holding his insides close. Just more images Steve's gotta keep 'cause the stains won't wash away.

"If there's something you should be telling us," Tony goes on, surprisingly delicate even as darkness moves behind his eyes, "about Loki's possible affinity for—self harm."

"He would not ever," Thor says softly. It's not the immediate, angry denial Steve might've expected. "Though many things may be said of him, my brother is too covetous by far to simply—to wish all away." He opens his hands when he says _all_ , like the empty air in his palms is an eternity. Who knows? For someone like him, maybe it can be. "There is a scaled beast on Asgard our family often likens him to: it has a hoard which can be taken or stolen by the very brave, the very strong, or the very foolish. But it willingly lets go nothing."

"When he wakes up," Steve says finally, "we can ask him."

"When he awakens," Thor says solemnly, taking the mug Bruce passes over to him, "the two of us shall together journey to Asgard and seek the chambers of healing under care of our mother. We will return to you after, to battle beside you with our full strength."

It's Bruce who eventually guides Thor outta the room, explaining in quiet tones about the damage, the surgery. What they had to do, what condition Loki's in. He keeps his hand on Thor's back the whole time, easy, steady, reassuring.

Clint watches them go, drinking from his own mug of tea, and Natasha watches Clint. Her eyes are critical, like she's looking him over to make sure everything's still in working order.

Tony stares into his cup. It looks empty from where Steve's standing.

"Do you think Fury kept Loki's part in this quiet from the Council?" Steve asks wearily.

"Hard to say. He'd definitely try to. We're always making him look bad." Clint smirks, but there's an edge to it. "He didn't argue when Natasha told him we'd be treating Loki's injuries ourselves."

"Depending on which side of the bed he's on with the Council and the mutants," Natasha says, taking Tony's mug away with light fingers, "he might just blame the damage on Magneto and call it a wash." She starts running soapy dishwater. "Either way, it's possible we're off the hook for now."

"I'll see if he has an update for us," Clint says, drumming his palms idly on the counter. Steve wonders if he misses his bow like a limb when he hasn't got it. It's how Steve feels about his shield. It's probably how Thor feels about his hammer.

"You do that," Natasha says. "I need to change my clothes." Clint fishes his phone from his back pocket and follows her out.

Steve wanders over to the sink for something to do with his hands.

"Do you need any help?" Tony asks when they're completely alone.

"No," Steve says.

Tony snags a towel anyway, starts drying the dishes in silence. When Steve glances at him edgewise, there are tight, pensive lines around his eyes. Steve waits.

"So we're pretty sure something happened to trigger him," Tony murmurs, getting water all over the counter. "Then he got as far away from everyone as he could before he started ripping his guts out. Then his magic went pear-shaped."

"Any idea what it could've been?"

"Well, he talked to Thor," Tony sighs. "Then Thor left. They didn't look like they were arguing in the footage, though."

"He'll wake up. We can ask." They work side-by-side in silence for a time.

"I didn't mean to be a dick," Tony eventually says. "Earlier."

"Which time?" Steve sets the wet, clean dishes on the dish rack. Tony picks at them and sorta dries them off.

"Well." Tony pauses, appears to think about it. Smudges his fingers all over the ceramic. "All continuous instances, I suppose. I mean, it's pretty rough getting shot down by Captain America—"

"For chrissake, Tony, I wasn't—"

"—but I guess this whole thing came out of left field for me." His lips are flatlined when he looks up at Steve, like there's no heart in him at all. "I should have expected it."

"No," Steve says, catching Tony's hands in his own. He honestly doesn't know if Tony's still talking about Loki or not. If maybe he's talking about this thing between them instead. In either case, Steve takes away the plate Tony's been towelling dry so furiously. He sets it safely on the counter where it will live to serve another day.

"I get these ideas of how I think things should go. Then I think that's how they _will_ go. But I'm actually not the best judge of character," Tony admits. Like it's a weakness, like it's true, like it's got anything to do with anything. "It's gotten me into some pretty fucked-up situations."

"I'll let you in on a secret," Steve says, taking Tony's towel and folding it neatly so it'll dry out. "Even when you call it right, shit still hits the fan."

Tony swallows, throat working. Then he grabs Steve's wrist and stares at the floor.

"Here," Steve murmurs quietly, just as Tony pleads, "Let me—"

The front door opens and they pause, listening. They separate just as she walks in the kitchen.

Sky-high heels and a soft gray suit. Pink lipstick. Her coppery hair twisted up in a bun, pale green eyeshadow and matching paint on her flawless fingernails.

She sets her briefcase on the kitchen table, her movements soft with exhaustion but graceful all the same.

"Pepper," Tony says in a strangled kinda way. He takes a few steps toward her, reflexively, 'cause he loves her. Steve knows he loves her.

Steve starts putting half-dry dishes away.

Pepper moves her arms awkwardly like she wants to hug him, but Tony doesn't go any closer. "Hi, Tony. Steve," she says, sparing him a glance and a small smile.

"What are you doing home?" Tony asks. It sounds almost accusatory, and Steve winces. There's so much wrong here.

"I don't want to fight with you about this," she says gently. Steve tries not to watch, but he's gotta keep turning back to grab more dishes. "I know you worry about me. But I have too much to handle on the East Coast to be out of New York right now." She takes a few steps closer to him, slowly bridges the distance. "Loki isn't even conscious right now. I had to hear that from JARVIS, Tony. You haven't called for almost a week."

"We have a lot on our plate," Tony says, hands restless at his sides.

"Don't you think that's something I should know about?" Pepper counters. Then she reaches out, catches the edge of his palm with feather-light fingers. "Do you just expect me to stay in Malibu until you decide it's safe for me to come home? We've talked about this, Tony. You have to stop keeping things from me."

"I'll just," Steve mutters, leaving. No one watches him go.

* * *

He locks himself in a second-floor bathroom. Takes a minute to splash water on his face, brace his hands on the counter. Stare at his reflection in the mirror, try to clear all the junk outta his mind, pull himself together.

We're not good guys, Steve thinks wretchedly. We're just guys who try to do good things and sometimes screw everything up.

It's the best he can do. Tony says, _I'm leaving Pepper for you_ , and then he looks at Pepper like he loves her more than his own goddamn hands. Steve can't fucking take it, even though it'd be best for everyone if Tony never so much as touched Steve for the rest of their lives. If they could pretend none of this ever happened.

Steve leans against the counter 'til he's got his breath under control, 'til his pulse is back to normal. Then he goes to check in on Loki.

The blankets are loose around his waist, the bandages on his chest spotted with blood. His dark hair fans over the pillow like a shadow, a heavy contrast to his snowy face.

Thor's stretched out next to him in the king-sized bed, the only other person in the room. He's got one hand propping his head up, the other curled gently around Loki's wrist.

"Hello," Steve greets, mouth dry. They look liked matched set, imply something Steve can't make sense of, can't shake. While he's never believed you walk around with half a heart 'til you meet someone who fits, he's prepared to accept that maybe they do things different on other planets. That's what watching them feels like, to him: changing your mind.

"Steve," Thor murmurs, voice gravelly. He doesn't raise his eyes. "His pulse is weak, but steadily gains strength." His thumb moves in small circles over the center of Loki's palm, which he raises to his chest. "Forgive me. I was told that you risked yourself rushing to his aid. I have not expressed my gratitude." Solemnly, Thor inclines his head. "I thank you, Steve Rogers. A more worthy companion I have not met in centuries."

"It's fine," Steve says, pulling up a chair. "You'd do it for any of us."

"That may well be," Thor murmurs, watching Loki's still face. "Though you would not be indebted to me for such a thing."

"So you understand, then," Steve says, "when I say you don't owe us anything."

Thor looks up at him with surprise. The smallest of smiles touches his mouth, though it fades when he glances back at his brother.

"It was ever Loki's lot to be miscast by those around him," he says after several minutes. "To this very day, I am unable to determine whether that is his intention always." He swallows, reaches forward to touch his brother's hair. "He has certainly played me the fool on countless occasions."

"Thor," Steve rasps, uncomprehending. He finds his eyes are wet, his throat tight. He's got no idea why.

"Leave us," Thor says softly. "I would contemplate matters."

Steve nods, standing. Shuts the door quietly behind him.

* * *

It's dark when he steps outside to clear his head, warm enough but overcast. He can't see any stars, and the moon follows him in hazy pieces.

Steve shoves his hands into the pockets of his borrowed sweats, walks, and doesn't think about anything. Focuses on the feel of the sidewalk under his bare feet, the steady beat of his lungs. The distant sound of the wind in the trees.

After about half an hour, the sky opens up for the second time today. Soaked to the skin, the rain streaming down his face and beading on his lashes, he hasn't got a damn thing sorted out in his head. But he feels cleaner, somehow, like a darkness has been rinsed away, even if nothing's changed at all. He takes his time walking back.

A thin crack of lightning splits the sky for a few bare instants, silent and faraway, as Steve comes up the drive. He stares up at the dark outline of the Stark mansion with water on his cheeks. There are people he cares about in this house, but right now it just looks like a relic from an earlier time. A fossil that recognizes another fossil and asks, What are you doing here?

Two shadows move together in one of the upstairs windows. Bitterly, Steve thinks: so much for being almost-faithful.

Pepper is Tony's girlfriend, regardless who he's sleeping with or what promises he's made. Tony's the bad guy, Steve's too selfish to turn him down, and Pepper's the one getting the short end of the stick. Steve pushes a hand back through his hair, sluicing rain down the back of his neck. He's not being fair. He's got no right to feel like he's losing something he never had to begin with.

But he goes on feeling it, right up 'til he walks inside and finds Tony leaning against an end table. His eyes are down, his arms crossed. There's a half-empty glass at his elbow, but he's not sharing shadows with anyone.

Steve's relief dissolves under his guilt, and what the heck else is new?

Tony looks up at him, jaw tight, like he's been waiting here a while. "Where have you been," he asks flatly. Then his forehead folds in on itself. "Why are you wet? Did you fall in a lake? Where did you even find one?"

"Went for a walk," Steve says, frowning. He moves closer, takes in the deep crescents cut under Tony's eyes and the faint edge of alcohol clinging to him like perfume. The most sleep Tony's got in maybe two days has been the couple hours in Steve's bed, and Steve's got no idea when he last ate something. Probably room service, he thinks, resigned. Yesterday morning seems like a lifetime ago. "It's raining."

"That would do it," Tony sighs. "Come on, I have towels."

Steve follows close behind, wondering if he's allowed to touch Tony's hand the way Pepper did. He never knows where the goalposts are, feels like they move around. There's a probably an analogy here somewhere: the closer Tony is to Pepper, the further he is from Steve.

But maybe Steve needs rest, too, 'cause that's not any kinda metaphor. That's just a damn fact from every angle. "Loki wake up yet?"

"No," Tony answers. His shoulders are sharp in the semi-darkness of the hall. The only light comes to them from a lamp in the den as they pass by. He sounds worried. "He's not healing, either. Thor said he should be. I don't know what that means."

Steve ducks his head, lips pursed. There's a hot, desperate part of him that wonders if he'll ever be able to save anybody, if it's even possible to win the long game. Maybe you can manage it the first time around, or the eighth or the twenty-seventh. But one day you're not gonna make it. One day he'll miss Bucky's hand by inches, or his date with Peggy by decades. One day he'll close the portal too soon for Tony to fall back down to Earth.

Steve feels brittle, bone-dry even as his clothes cling heavy and clammy, drag him down. Just 'cause you save someone a hundred times doesn't mean you can save them the hundred-and-first. It's an endless circle of close-calls and eventually _Steve will lose_.

"I'll get you some pajamas," Tony says then, sliding his fingertips into the soft joint of Steve's elbow. His voice banishes the darkness like a charm, and there's gold in his eyes again when he glances up. It takes Steve a minute to realize they're in one of the spare rooms. "You're sleeping here tonight." Tony grabs a towel outta the closet, throws it on the bed. "And—if you think you can manage—I'd fucking love it if you'd stop looking like someone murdered your dog."

"I never had a dog," Steve finally says, distracted and troubled with his heart in his throat. "I was allergic."

Tony studies him for moment. Then he says, somewhat stiffly, "Loki's not dead yet. What happened to him sucks, but. I mean, he'll probably be okay."

"I wasn't thinking about Loki, Tony," Steve says. The cold's finally starting to creep in, makes him shudder involuntarily.

Tony frowns, lips in a flat line, and starts to tug at Steve's t-shirt.

"Thank you," Steve says quietly after a moment or so. "For the new uniform. I never said."

"You're welcome," Tony mutters. "The soak got most of the blood out. It's in the washer right now."

"I appreciate it," Steve says as Tony manhandles the shirt the rest of the way off. It hits the floor with a loud slap.

"You should. I put a dense, flexible polymer plate between the layers of fabric. It'll stop bullets without weighing you down. Won't shatter on impact, will move with you but retain its shape." His fingers skid over Steve's shoulders, dip beneath his arms. Like he's checking for damage, for other things he oughta fix. 'Cause he likes to make things better, Steve remembers warmly. "I had to leave some places open, though, for mobility. I, uh, meant to brief you earlier. Before you actually had to wear it in the field."

Steve fixes his eyes on the muted glow of the arc reactor, reaches out his hands. Tony's close, radiates heat. Steve trails his cool fingers over Tony's bare hip where his shirt's shifted, where his belly shows.

Tony clears his throat, his eyes falling to Steve's mouth and going dark. "So—so you should have full range of motion—did you notice?—but, um. Don't get shot or stabbed in your armpits. Or your groin, or the backs of your knees or the, the inside of your elbows." He ghosts his fingers over each of these places in turn, working his way down. He slides off Steve's sweatpants as he goes, palming the curve of Steve's backside, leaning in briefly to press a kiss against the half-hard shaft of Steve's cock. Then he straightens with a graceless jerk. "You'll be more than formidable against a head-on attack. Just. Don't let anyone sneak up on you."

Tony's voice has dropped steadily 'til it's just a breathy whisper, suspended between them in the air. Steve shifts, allows himself to be gently towelled off. His cock aches dully between his legs.

"I'll be right back," Tony whispers, pushing him down on the bed. His hand twitches in the direction of Steve's thighs, but he doesn't touch him again. He gathers up the wet clothes instead. "Don't move, soldier boy."

He must doze for a while, 'cause next thing he knows there's an arm under his back, a warm pressure moving the blankets and sheets around.

"Tony?" He mumbles.

"Shh," Tony says. "Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Time's it?" Steve asks, sighing. He hadn't meant to fall asleep for the five minutes Tony was gone.

"About eleven." Fifteen minutes, then.

"Is Loki—"

"Still breathing."

"Okay." Steve shifts onto his side. The sheets feel wonderful against his bare skin, the angle of his hip, the swell of his butt.

Tony looks pained. "You should put these on," he says, motioning to the flannel pants he brought back with him. " I will never leave this room if you don't, and I have work to do."

Steve's cock swells again, jumps slightly at the heavy want in his voice. Judging by the way Tony's eyes cloud over, Steve figures he notices.

But then Steve props himself up on his elbows and asks, "What kinda work? If there's anything I should do—"

"You should stay right here and rest," Tony says. Then, softer, "And—maybe let me look at you for a little while."

"I—," Steve fumbles his words, feels safe and wanted beneath Tony's intense gaze. Feels like everything's okay.

Tony's hands move feather-light over Steve's shoulders and arms. A nail catching lightly at his nipple, the line of a thumb sinking into the muscular ridges of his hip, his thigh. The five-finger grooves of his rib cage.

Pepper's _here_ , she's somewhere upstairs in this very house, and Steve doesn't fucking care. He gets his hands around Tony's chest, thumbs the soft, thin t-shirt. If he presses in, he can feel the rapid thrum of Tony's heartbeat.

Tony leans close, fully-clothed down to his Wolverine socks, and buries his face in Steve's throat. Breathes him in.

"Gimme a minute," he says, voice muffled, arms stealing around Steve's waist. Steve shifts, hugs Tony tightly against his body. Presses his jaw into that soft, brown hair. He smells like sweat and metal. Steve never wants to let go.

"Okay. Okay," Tony says, wriggling free and getting some distance between them. He keeps a hand on the side of Steve's neck. "Right. So I'm gonna tuck you in—"

"I'm not a _kid_ —"

"I'm going to _tuck you in_ ," Tony repeats, yanking the covers out from under Steve's body and settling them snug around him again. "Since you refuse to be any kind of decent and cover up this festival of carnality—"

"Festiv—ugh." Steve shakes his head, but he can't get the smile off his face.

"—and since we. I mean, we take care of each other," Tony says. He looks earnestly at Steve's face. "We do that," he repeats, but he says it like it's a question. Like maybe he doesn't know.

"We do that," Steve tells him firmly.

"Okay. Good." He relaxes a bit. "I won't be up all night," he says seriously. "Just—give me an hour or two. Then I'll come back and we'll both get some sleep, yeah?"

Steve motions gingerly toward the ceiling, does his best to keep his voice neutral, "You're gonna be missed, Tony."

"We've got a butchered god on the ground floor, a class five mutant in bed with our Homeland Security organization, and an unmedicated rage monster that would really like for me to finalize a working alternative for his effective but incapacitating drug habit," he says, counting off on his fingers. "Pepper would find it _incredibly suspicious_ if she saw me at all in the next twenty hours." His eyes slide over Steve's bulky form, heavy and thoughtful. "Thirty hours. Thirty-seven hours."

"If you say so." Steve can't even find it in him to get angry. The day's been too long, too draining by half. Physical exertion is nothing to him; it's everything else that makes Steve wanna turn himself off for awhile.

Tony's mostly the opposite, though. He can work through whatever you throw at him, right up 'til his body gives out from exhaustion. Steve wonders if he and Tony balance each other other in a weird sorta way, or if they're both just deeply flawed people.

"I'm really the worst boyfriend ever," Tony whispers after a while, voice rough. "It's no wonder you don't wanna date me."

Steve reaches for him, takes his hand. Squeezes. Tony's a little drunk and a lot exhausted, and Steve wants him to stay here. To sleep, to touch. But all he says is, "See you in an hour."

"Right. That's—right," Tony says. He presses Steve's hand to his mouth, his lips warm and dry and soft. "An hour."

* * *

It's about four in the morning when Steve wakes up alone. The clothes Tony brought are still on the bed, so he pulls them on with quick, mechanical movements. The shirt's tight around his chest, the pants kinda loose. He cinches them at the waist and pads quietly into the hall.

It's entirely possible Tony ended up in his own bed, so Steve doesn't look for him. He goes to check in on Loki instead, see if Thor's gone to sleep yet.

He hangs back when he reaches the half-open door. Thor's not on the bed this time. Instead, he's got a chair pulled up, head bowed over Loki's hand as he holds it gently in both of his own.

Of anyone else in the world, Steve's probably got the most in common with Thor—they're both so outta sync with the present era, even if it's from different directions, that they may as well be on equal footing. Unbidden, the thought crosses his mind that the same's true for Loki.

Then he realizes Loki's awake. There's a dry rasp and a fragile bracelet of words, a flash of green.

"You swore an oath to protect me," Thor's replying quietly around a ragged, worried smile. "Yet allow yourself such grievous injury."

"Thor," Loki whispers, voice dry as dust, "I _was_ protecting you."

Thor smooths his fingers over Loki's thin wrist in anxious circles. "So must we return to Asgard," Thor growls, like it's an argument they've been having for hours. "That the healers may put you to rights, that you may fight at my side once more."

"No," Loki says. Steve's gotta strain to hear him. "You think I would lead _them_ along the straight path to Asgard? To their coveted prize? You think I would loose those forces upon your home?" He coughs, weak and brittle. Thor seizes his shoulders, holds him through it. With a sick twist to his stomach, Steve realizes there's blood on Loki's mouth. "It was all that I could do to keep them at bay as-was."

"It is your home as well," Thor insists. "Father will seal the portal, or Heimdall. I yet believe Jane could—"

Loki turns his face away from his brother, makes a soft, complicated sound. It takes a moment for Steve to recognize derision—jealousy.

Thor looks startled, but his tone's gentle. "Loki—"

"I am not here to suffer your dalliances," Loki says in his sharp voice. But it comes out all wrong, cracked and heaving and distorted. Anger and agony are at war in the lines of his face, the rigidness of his limbs. The way his torso curves in, fetal and helpless like a sick little kid in a cold church.

"You are here because I wish it," Thor says soberly, reaching out to rest a heavy hand on Loki's narrow rib cage. "And because you wish it."

Steve raps gently on the doorframe.

When Thor looks up, there are dark, heavy smudges around his eyes. Wearily, Steve supposes that answers the question of whether or not he's gotten any rest.

"Steve," he smiles wearily.

"Thor. Loki," Steve greets. He takes a few steps in, but doesn't sit down.

Loki shifts up to look at him, offers a tiny nod. His breath comes shallow and his fingers twist in the sheets, but he closes his eyes when Thor combs a hand through the dark, tangled mess of his hair.

"We couldn't get ahold of you earlier," Steve says to Thor. He tries not to sound accusing. "Wanna tell me where you were?"

Aggrieved, Thor meets Steve's blue eyes with his own. "I was calling on the Lady Jane of Foster," he explains. "She is possessed of a singularly kind and gentle nature. I had hoped she might assist us with present matters." He pauses, searching through the folds of his cloak.

It's probably one of the weirdest things Steve's ever seen, a man in magical armor with a magical hammer at his waist pulling out a smartphone.

Thor runs his thumb over the smooth screen, puzzled. "In the great basins of the New Mexico, though our mighty cell phones did battle with valor and honor, they could not overcome the brute strength and sly trickery of the intermittent service towers."

Thor went to see Jane, had poor reception. Steve sifts through for the important parts. "'Present matters'?"

Thor opens his mouth to speak, but doesn't. He glances down at his brother instead.

Loki doesn't look at either of them, but after a moment he says: "A halfmoon ago. When I divined the orchestrative nature of Director Fury's involvement with Magneto's attack."

"Yes," Steve says. Trepidation swirls in him like an illness, rises bitter in the back of his throat.

Loki exhales carefully. "My association with the Chitauri required a link forged between myself and their leader. It is how we communicated. It is how I accessed energies and abilities which were not my own." He raises his hands, circles his slender fingers together over his chest. "I do not otherwise traverse the realm of thought and psychic control."

"He speaks truly," Thor says, as though he expects Steve to think otherwise.

"The caveat," Loki continues, eyes snapping up over Steve's, "should I have somehow failed to uphold my end of the bargain, was that the link could be reshaped into a portal. I was able to seal it when Stark destroyed their central ship; I am exceptionally resourceful, and in that moment they were weak." He pauses. "However..."

Steve feels a pulse shudder through him. It's a long moment before he understands it as fear. "You had to unseal it. When you read Fury's mind."

Thor leans forward angrily. "This is—is this _true_?"

You don't know? Steve thinks sadly.

"Yes." Loki says simply. "And now I am, effectively, both journey and destination for a collective of powerful adversaries desirous yet of the tesseract. I imagine they mean to apply methods varied and extreme to encourage my... _cooperation_ in locating it."

"Let them make any attempt," Thor rumbles fiercely. There's a blackness to his gaze, a bloodlust and a kinda hate that comes from loving someone enough to kill for them.

"You outta your mind?" Steve asks finally, searching Loki's pained face. "What part of tearing down your only line of defense against those guys seemed like a good idea?"

"I harbor grave concerns," Loki says flatly, "when a man who deigns command myself and mine offers neither explanation nor rationale for his actions."

"It couldn't've been worth this," Steve says, motioning to the nightmare of Loki's abdomen. "We would've found out about Fury and SHIELD on our own."

"I will not risk Thor's safety," Loki says, easing up onto his elbows. "I will not leave his fate in the hands of mortals, to be manipulated at their pleasure."

"You really think this is better?" Steve asks seriously. "Making yourself an open door for ' _powerful adversaries_ '? That ain't a risk to Thor's safety?"

Loki presses his lips together thoughtfully. "But they cannot come through at present. As I am so damaged, it would likely kill me. Then they would have no gate at all. Their lead to the tesseract would disappear." Patiently, he studies his hands. "So I will remain this way for a time."

Thor grits his teeth. "Loki—"

"I will remain this way for a time," Loki repeats firmly, even as his breath hitches. "And perhaps your—Jane—can seal their link once more. Perhaps destroy it entirely."

Steve's suspected, like Tony's suspected, but now he's sure.

Thor stares at his brother, eyes wide and endlessly, achingly blue. " _You did this_?"

Loki sighs tiredly. He even reaches out and touches Thor's tightly curled knuckles. "It would not have been my first choice, had I any other."

* * *

Steve's been sitting in his guestroom for the better part of an hour, coffee gone cold on the bedside table, when he notices. Under the TV remote, his name scrawled on top in a loose hand, is a neatly folded note. He wonders when Tony left it there.

He reaches for it hesitantly, fingers careful as they slip inside, open it up. He studies the neat type, surprised, 'cause he'd almost forgotten he'd asked for it.

At the very bottom of the list of names and addresses, there's a single line of text: _His secrets have secrets. But he left this one right where I would find it_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The audible click as Tony turns the lock makes Steve's heart rate pick up, makes heat pool low in his belly. Now they're two people standing apart in a dim bedroom: now Tony's covering the distance between them on bare feet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor updates/corrections as of 2013AUG21.

_There's a mission_ , Steve types out carefully. He's not sure if she's awake or not, figures a text message is a bit like leaving a note. It was a late night for all of them. _Whenever you got time to talk._

Natasha responds almost immediately, and Steve's gotta wonder if she went to bed at all. He's pretty sure Thor hasn't. _Time-sensitive?_

 _Doesn't need to be now_ , Steve replies. He pauses, then adds, _08:00?_ before hitting 'send'.

 _It's a date, Cap_.

He's just plugging in his phone to charge when Tony shows up, movements sluggish and lazy as he shuts the door behind him. Tired shadows shift and dip over his face as he glances around Steve's borrowed room, but his eyes are bright over his sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his dark hair messy and loose against his forehead. "Got caught up with a working equation for gamma—for, uh. Hulk suppression."

"That a thing?" Steve asks softly. The audible click as Tony turns the lock makes Steve's heart rate pick up, makes heat pool low in his belly. Now they're two people standing apart in a dim bedroom: now Tony's covering the distance between them on bare feet.

"It can be." He squeezes Steve's arms with rough, needy hands, runs calloused thumbs down over Steve's wrists. When Steve drags him in close and presses a kiss to the top of his head, Tony snakes his fingers under Steve's t-shirt and toys restlessly with his waistband. "I mean, I think it can be. I'm getting pretty close."

"Useful," Steve says, distracted and not really thinking about Bruce at all. Then, "I got your note. Gonna talk to Natasha in the morning."

"I fear for our foolish adversaries," Tony says solemnly. "They know nothing of the demon they dare to cross."

Steve chuckles, dragging his mouth over a delicate earlobe. Memorizing the perfect weight of the body in his arms.

"So, um." Tony clears his throat, pushes his face into Steve's neck like a little kid. Mentions cautiously, "I talked to Pepper this morning. She cornered me by the coffee pot."

"Yeah?" Steve asks. His arms tighten across Tony's back. He doesn't mean to, it's just a thing that happens.

Tony curves in closer, edges Steve toward the bed 'til he's sitting down, 'til Tony can fit just so between his knees. "Mmmhmm. She was on her way out the door. We're having dinner tonight when she's done at the office."

Jealousy flares hot in Steve's chest, ugly with loss and pale threads of fear, sticky with guilt. But then Tony continues, "I'm going to break it off with her."

Steve goes very still.

"I want this," Tony whispers to his jaw. "I want you. I want to do this right." When he swallows, Steve can feel it against his throat. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"Why d'you keep apologizing," Steve huffs, backing up a little so there's some space between them. Tony simply crowds closer. "You think I'm mad?"

Tony shrugs, eyes downcast, and Steve cups the rough stubble of his jaw. "I'm—kinda getting used to the situation with Pepper." Since the alternative was walking away, which Steve never managed to do. "And you pulling an all-nighter ain't news."

"You shouldn't have had to get used to anything," Tony says, shaking his head. "I should never have done this to you."

"You should never've done this to _her_ ," Steve corrects quietly, even as he fixes on the fact that Tony said _to you_ instead of _with you_. 'Cause he doesn't regret this, 'cause he's giving Pepper up. 'Cause maybe, at the end of the day, they're gonna make this _work_.

Tony tilts his head back, mouth twisted crookedly as he studies Steve's face. "We do with what we have all we can," he says. Then they're kissing.

Steve says, No, you got it mixed up. But he can't form the words, 'cause Tony's warm and easy above him. His tongue insistent and wet, he tastes like coffee; the sharp tang of sugar; echoes of the brandy he'd been drinking when Steve fell asleep.

"Question," Tony mutters, nosing along Steve's pulse. He's got his hand under Steve's shirt, sorta palming the base of his spine. Slips a pinky finger under the hem of Steve's pants and presses it into his tailbone, careful and exploratory. "What do you think about...?"

Steve tilts his head, takes in the color on Tony's cheeks and the heavy way he watches Steve through his eyelashes. "You mean," Steve murmurs thoughtfully, shifting his weight so his legs are angled out. So Tony sinks more firmly against him, so Tony feels the solid, heavy heat pooling between them. Steve leans up and says against his ear, "You wanna fuck me, Tony?"

Tony inhales sharply, his hands stiff, his pulse an uneven flash at his throat. There's a dull stutter to the dimmed arc reactor under his shirt, and jesus christ no one's ever made Steve feel so _wanted_.

"I—that's," Tony tries, leaning back with his hands on Steve's hips. He picks at the fabric, antsy and nervous. "Yes, please. If it's okay." He swallows. "Please say it's okay."

Steve snorts, leaning in and catching his mouth. It's almost chaste, 'cause Tony's too stunned to really kiss him back. "It's okay."

Tony nods, a rough jerk in the lamplight, then leans over and rattles around the bedside drawer with clumsy movements. Steve figures he shouldn't be surprised at all when Tony unearths condoms and lube.

"Keep this place stocked?" He asks, eyebrows raised as Tony pulls his shirt over his head, floods the room with blue light.

"Remember how I put you in here," he mutters, going for Steve's pants next, "and how I plan to sleep here every night that you do."

Steve hadn't really caught on to the last part, though he supposes he might've guessed. It curls inside him, easy and perfect: that Tony keeps this in mind, keeps this stuff here for _him_. That, wrestling off their clothes, Tony's skittish like Steve's giving him a gift.

They kiss 'til there's nothing between them but skin, 'til Tony's hands slide warm and rough over his waist. 'Til he brushes his knuckles over Steve's belly, gives Steve's dick a brief squeeze before dipping just behind.

Steve sucks in a breath and Tony says, "Okay. I'm gonna need you to roll over, baby." He's got the bottle of lube in his other hand, his cock heavy and full against Steve's belly. He keeps steady fingers on Steve's sides 'til Steve's on his knees, then presses a kiss low on his spine. Gently nudges his thighs apart.

He must've warmed the lube in his hand first, 'cause the first slow circle of his finger's not even cold. Steve tries to relax, to control his breathing. But all he can think is, Baby. He called me _baby_.

"You're so _tight_ ," Tony mumbles, his forehead resting between Steve's shoulder blades. "How long's it been since," he gently presses into Steve's body, wet and slick. Crooks his finger just so. Steve's gotta bite his lip to keep quiet, can't quite get a handle on the rough sounds that slip through anyway.

"It's. I've," Steve tries, but Tony's got these hands, right, these clever hands that he uses for delicate work _every goddamn day_. He's the most tactile guy Steve's ever met, and he's got the movements down to a science. Steve can hardly think straight, can't help his hips bucking forward in fits and starts, smearing precome all over the sheets—and then Tony's pushing a second finger inside and Steve almost loses his _mind_ —

—but Tony pauses, his other hand warm on Steve's ribs. He asks again, very clearly, "Steve. How long has it been?"

"Tony—"

"How. Long?" There's an edge to his voice, serious and drawn. Steve glances over his shoulder to see Tony watching him soberly, without a trace of his caffeine high. Steve's never seen him looking like he's bit off more than he can chew, but he imagines it'd be kinda like this.

Steve could lie, but he's already taken too long. The game's up now. So he admits, "Hasn't been."

Tony stares at him in stunned silence. "As in—never? You're telling me you've _never done this before?_ " He jerks like he's been burned, withdraws both fingers at once.

Steve hisses with frustration, aching for the loss of them, so turned on it _hurts_ , and—he just, he needs—

"...Okay," Tony says, sitting back on his heels. His cock angles up from his body, thick and flushed red, wet at the tip. Steve stares at it, feels his own tighten, but Tony just looks miserable. "We're—we have to fucking talk about this."

"No." Steve shifts onto his side, propped up on one elbow, legs shifted apart. He can feel the slick lube between his cheeks, the dull ache where Tony's fingers have been. He _wants_ this, and he'll be damned if he's gonna let Tony talk himself outta it now. Not after everything else between them. "We can talk after." Steve glares up at Tony's stricken face and commands: "Right now you're gonna fuck me, Stark."

Tony's cock sorta twitches, darkens just a bit, and Steve thinks, Oh.

He repeats, very deliberately, in his Captain America voice: "You're gonna _fuck me_ , Stark."

"Steve," Tony says unevenly, voice rough and faltering. "We. We really need to—"

"We don't." Steve rolls back onto his knees again and plants his palms firmly on the wall above the headboard. "Let me tell you what's happening here. You're about to shove my legs apart." He arches his back, puts himself on display like a piece of meat. The idea of Tony staring at him, of Tony so damn _hot_ for him, bursts through his veins in waves, makes him sweat and pant, makes him wanna beg. But he doesn't. "You're gonna grab hold of my hips hard enough to bruise. Like I did with you."

" _Fuck_ ," Tony whines wretchedly, leaning in close above him. His palms ghost over Steve's torso, twitchy and frantic. Dip down over the curve of his ass.

"You know what you're gonna do then, Tony?" Steve asks hoarsely, 'cause Tony's already inching a couple fingers back inside him.

" _What_." Tony angles his hand fast and rough, his breath hot on Steve's neck.

"You're gonna fuck me 't-til you can't see straight," Steve bites out. "Gonna make me scream. Won't be able to help it."

Something snaps, 'cause Tony makes a tight, angry sound and slides his fingers free, doesn't even finish stretching Steve out. Just manhandles him like a damn rentboy, pulls him away from the wall and shoves him down into the mattress.

He lines up his dick and pushes the tip inside, hitches his breath even as Steve gasps. "You and I," Tony hisses into his ear, "are going to have _words_ after this."

Then he fucks into Steve all at once, a long, unrelenting stroke 'til there's nowhere left to go. He doesn't take his time and it's too much—it _hurts_ —Steve's too _full_ and he can't suck in enough air and his white fingers knot violently in the sheets.

Tony doesn't make a sound, doesn't move. His nails cut deep crescents into Steve's sides. "You're, you're so fucking tight," he finally gasps. "I can't—Steve. Steve, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have, I." He babbles mindlessly, his fingers splaying over Steve's spine. "I. I just."

"Shut up," Steve grinds out. "Gimme a minute." He forces his body to relax, slowly gets used to the steady, pulsing burn. Grits his teeth as the pressure lessens by degrees.

"Steve," Tony kisses against his shoulder, "am I hurting you? I'm hurting you, I can't hurt you, I—"

"No," Steve says, glad Tony can't see his face. Once he gets his breathing under control, once it's bearable, he parts his thighs just that little bit more. Rocks back experimentally.

"Oh god," Tony moans. "Oh, fuck, _Steve_."

"Move," Steve says.

"Are you sure—I don't, I, I," Tony whispers, his fingers catching in the hollows of Steve's hips, squeezing reflexively.

"I'm a goddamn super soldier, Tony. You ain't gonna hurt me. So—fucking— _move_ ," he orders.

Tony moves. It takes a minute or so to build up a rhythm, longer before the pain fades out into something distant and aching in the background. Tony's breath comes ragged and rough above him, his hands nervous and reverent on Steve's body; and then, between one moment and the next, the pain becomes something else entirely. Beautiful and powerful, precious and much larger than Steve, it swallows his world whole and sets fires behind his eyes. He's barely got the presence of mind to keep quiet.

"Your filthy fucking mouth," Tony gasps against his neck, "Can't believe they let you kiss babies with that mouth, oh my god." Then he reaches around and grabs Steve's cock, fucks into him as Steve fucks into his hand.

It doesn't take long. Tony hasn't got Steve's stamina, but his fingers are devilishly quick. He angles his thrusts just so, shifts direction right before he comes. The reckless, needy rhythm that follows leads Steve right up to the edge—and gracelessly throws him over.

When Tony's voice breaks in his ear, Steve goes blind with the force of his orgasm. It rips through his body, tears him apart 'til there's nothing but the burst of starlight low in his hips, curling at the base of his spine. The heat of Tony shuddering against his back. The way his hands cover Steve's own, how he tangles their fingers together, how he whispers something unintelligible and fierce to the smooth plane of Steve's shoulder blade.

When Steve opens his eyes, Tony's in a boneless heap on top of him and JARVIS has got the panels over the windows dimmed, blocking out the sunlight. The clock reads seven-thirteen. Steve's lying in a patch of dry ejaculate, and Tony's fallen asleep, soft, inside him. It takes some maneuvering to get outta bed.

There's no condom to get rid of, which is something they probably oughta talk about. Tony doesn't usually do things without a reason. Steve sighs, shelves the thought for later, and fumbles his way to the bathroom for a damp towel.

He spends some time wiping them down in the dark, slow and thorough with the warm rag. He's just finishing up when Tony reaches out and catches his hand.

"Going," he mumbles, eyes closed. His hair curls wildly around his face, dark on the pillow. His cheeks are warm with sleep and exertion.

"Gotta see a man about a horse," Steve replies fondly, allowing himself to be pulled down onto the bed. Tony slides around him, all loose limbs.

"Not funny," he mumbles. "Close but no cigar."

Steve cards his fingers through Tony's hair. "See a guy about a thing?"

"Better," Tony admits grudgingly, rolling onto his back. He tugs Steve close, presses his face up under Steve's jaw. Trails slow, thoughtful kisses against the soft flesh he finds there. "Tell her hello for me."

"You can tell her yourself after you get some rest." Steve says, gently freeing himself. Tony cracks an eye, watches as Steve pulls his clothes back on.

"Text me," he sighs.

"Sure thing, Tony," Steve says, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Mm. Gotta. Don't forget to. Know where you're," Tony yawns around the beautiful, meaningless syllables. Watching him fall asleep, a heaviness settles in Steve's chest—fond, immobile and so huge it hurts. A feeling he can't see past. It makes Steve's breath catch and tangle in his lungs.

Makes him feel like, if he had this, he could be happy one day.

* * *

Natasha studies Steve with critical green eyes before skimming the list he's handed over. She doesn't look tired at all. Out back on Clint's makeshift archery range, the early morning sun filters through the trees at the back of the property and sets her hair on fire. She tucks a loose strand behind her ear, radiant in black cotton shorts and a gray tank top. "Are the blocked-out names deceased?"

"Yeah," Steve answers, looking over at the distant targets. Some are a straight shot, but most are half-obstructed or set at difficult angles. "Filed as 'natural causes'. But they all happened while Magneto was attacking the city."

Natasha's silent for a moment. "Well, it can be done. But if the mutants are already taking care of it, why interfere?"

"What?" Steve asks, turning sharply back to her.

"I'm very good at what I do," Natasha says, her expression unreadable. "But accidental deaths—"

"I don't want you to kill anybody," Steve says quickly, stricken. Warm and sudden, the breeze picks up and sifts around them. There's a murmur through the backdrop of dark leaves.

Natasha looks at him for a long, long moment, a world Steve can't begin to comprehend rising behind her eyes. Then it dissipates and she smiles her tiny knifepoint smile. "My mistake."

Steve searches her face. "You really think I'd ask that?"

"I don't think anything," Natasha says honestly. "But in my profession, there's usually only one reason a man hands me a list of names."

"Not your profession anymore," Steve says firmly, crossing his arms.

"No," she agrees. The she reaches up and touches his shoulder briefly, near his neck. She doesn't tell him, Thank you. But it's there all the same.

"You guys keep having these secret meetings without me," a new voice complains.

They both look up to see Clint making his way over the wet, green grass. He's barefoot and shirtless, all compact arms and bare chest in a pair of Hulk-themed pajama pants. The sleepy, disheveled look is spoiled somewhat by the complicated military-issue bow angled over one shoulder.

Natasha rolls her eyes, but shifts just enough that Clint can kinda sidle up to her personal space. The way you'd approach a wild animal, maybe. The look he throws her is sweet, almost soft, with a simple intimacy that makes Steve feel outta place. But then Clint meets his eyes, mouth quirking up—and just like that, Steve's a part of it, too. "Hey," he says.

Steve smiles back, crooked and surprised. "Hey."

Clint plucks the list from Natasha's deft fingers. She folds her arms together, all business, and asks, "So what's the mission, then?"

"I want you to talk to them," Steve says simply.

"Oh. Intimidation," Clint supplies.

Steve frowns. "I want you to make them understand it's in their best interest to drop any opposition they have to mutant rights."

"Keep a handful of rich bigots in line with the peace party," Clint summarizes, "so no one has them killed for the greater good? Gotcha."

Steve meets Clint's unreadable eyes and says, simply, "I wish there was a better way, but this's all I got."

"I know you're not usually that guy," Clint shrugs, handing the list back to Natasha. "I'm not, either. Well, not anymore."

Natasha folds the sheet of paper into a neat square and slides it into her pocket. Then she stretches her arms above her head, stifling a yawn. Her back cracks—three small, high pops that sound like distant bells. "I'm still that guy. I'll handle it."

"You sure?" Steve asks, concerned. They get a say in what they do or don't do now. 'Cause they're his.

"Sure," Natasha says easily. Then she looks at Clint. "Good-cop, bad-cop?"

"Do I have to be good-cop again? I'm always good-cop," he huffs. "It's like you think I'm not a tough guy or something."

"I think you're plenty tough," she assures. "From a distance."

"Unkind," Clint says. Then, to Steve, "We'll touch base in a few hours."

"Thank you," Steve tells them seriously. He hopes he's not overstepping his bounds. Hopes they'd tell him if he was.

"Don't mention it." Clint gives a mock-salute.

"And try not to kiss any babies," Natasha adds lightly, "with that filthy fucking mouth."

Steve goes cold.

They watch him with interest, eyes glowing like chips of sea glass, azure and aquamarine. In this moment, he realizes he doesn't know them at all.

Panic rises in his chest. They got to know _me_ , he thinks wretchedly, and I never returned the favor. He's got no idea what they're thinking, can't even guess. He stares back levelly, even as his fists clench to stop from shaking. He was stupid, _Tony_ was stupid, and now Clint and Natasha _know_. Steve's got nothing in the world to say for himself. It doesn't matter how he feels, or even how Tony feels. It only matters what they've done.

"That's—not how I wanted you to find out," he says, struggling to keep his voice level.

"Well yeah," Clint says, amused. "You didn't want us to find out at all."

Steve looks away, mouth dry. He tries to swallow, but his throat's too tight to manage it.

"What you do on your own time is your business," Natasha says. She's not gentle, exactly, but she's not accusing him of anything. "But understand that you have to maintain a working relationship with Stark, regardless of how this pans out." She searches his face. "And that there is a very real likelihood that Pepper will never not be in the picture."

He tries to imagine what it'd be like, working alongside a Tony Stark who wasn't constantly crowding him or showing up outta the blue, wasn't sending him filthy phone messages or building him things. How it would feel if Tony stopped talking about a future together like Steve's got any claim on it.

All that comes to mind's a handful of small, useless memories that glitter like jewels. There're no warnings or cautionary tales; there's only Iron Man touching down to angle a tactical energy blast off Captain America's shield. Tony Stark with eyes like open wounds, even as he mocks a fallen comrade to shelter his grief. A bright, battered silhouette falling from the sky—a gloved hand on a banged-up chest plate as it stutters back to life.

Strange shadows cast around the teal light staining their skin, the first time they ever move together in the dark.

Kissing outside Stark Manor over Steve's motorcycle helmet: Tony promising not to leave him alone.

I never would've asked him to leave Pepper, Steve thinks, looking helplessly into Natasha's perfect face. I never would've thought I'd be allowed to keep him.

You walk around like you don't owe yourself anything, gamble with pennies. Then you someone tells you, _I want you. I wanna do this right_ , and suddenly you got a chance at thousand-dollar stakes. Suddenly you feel like you're gonna lost everything.

Steve says, voice carefully restrained, "I understand."

Natasha looks at him a moment more, then nods her head. "Good."

"Really, Steve? _Stark_?" Clint snorts, shaking his head.

* * *

"Captain Rogers," JARVIS says quietly, long after Clint and Natasha leave. Steve's gone back up to the house, but he hasn't gone inside. Alone on the deck, his palms flat on the solid wood railing, he breathes long and slow and deep.

 _There is a very real likelihood_ _that Pepper will never not be in the picture_.

He tries to get ahold of the ropes of anxiety twisting around in his guts, the worry and the guilt, the knots they're tying themselves into.

 _Pepper's a sure thing_. Who'd said that? Tony? No. No, it'd been Bruce. 'Cause Pepper and Tony were Bruce's family. They'd taken him in before anyone.

"My sensors indicate abnormal respiratory function and an elevated heart rate. Are you quite all right, Sir?"

 _I'm leaving Pepper for you, Cap._ Steve feels like throwing up. Instead he asks, "How long've you known about me and Tony?"

"It is amusing that you assume there was a time when I did not," JARVIS remarks dryly. Steve's struck once again by how damn human he sounds. "If you are concerned with the sensitive nature of your arrangement, be assured that is it not my place to betray the confidences of anyone in this residence."

Steve's not sure where the speakers are outside the house, but JARVIS's voice seems to come from all around him. He closes his eyes briefly, tilts his head back to feel the sun on his face. But the sky's grown overcast, so there's no warmth above him. "You're programmed not to spy on us?" He asks curiously, trying to change the subject. Get his mind on something else.

"You misunderstand, Captain," JARVIS corrects gently. "It is no more my place to inform Miss Potts of your affair with her partner than it would be Agent Romanov's or Agent Barton's."

Steve stares up at the pale sky, lungs burning. Once upon a time, he crashed a war plane full of explosives into the sea. He knows the price of laying down on the wire, 'cause he paid it.

"Captain Rogers?"

He's still paying for it. It wasn't enough to give up his life; it had to come back to him _changed_. Currency, rejected so penance could be taken outta his hide.

Steve's vision goes white and pink at the edges. He ends up on his knees, forehead pressed into his arms, gasping for air 'cause he can't fucking _breathe_ —'cause you're not supposed to get what you want at the expense of someone else. It's not _fair_. The knowledge has been there for months, stale and harsh at the back of his mind, but now Natasha knows. Clint knows. Steve can't rationalize it away; now it's real.

He should go 'round to Bucky's and pour out his goddamned heart. Bucky was always getting himself into trouble with dames. Bucky'd know what to do.

But Bucky's dead: Steve watched him disappear. Steve's lost him, and he's paying for that, too.

"I have relayed your vital information to Doctor Banner," JARVIS says, everywhere at once 'cause that's how people've created magic in the twenty-first century. It's how Tony creates friends. "He will be here to assist you momentarily. In the interim, I would urge you to focus on breathing, Captain."

With a cold, disconnected echo of a thought, Steve wonders if that's how you create ghosts, too.

* * *

A gentle hand touches the top of Steve's head, smoothes his hair. He opens his eyes and stares dully at a pair of lean, bare feet.

"JARVIS told me you were having a panic attack," Bruce says softly, kneeling down. He smells like rain, but maybe that's just the air outside. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Steve murmurs. He tries to force his body to stop shaking. Tear the darkness out by the root, focus on Bruce's warm brown eyes and the way the gray in his hair catches silver. How bright it is, even in the shadow of the house. "Fine."

"Okay." There's pillow lines on Bruce's face like was sleeping, but he doesn't look tired. He just sits calmly nearby 'til Steve pulls himself together. There's no sense of time, just steady breaths and the warm, windy air. The whisper and hiss of the trees. Gray clouds race across the sky, and eventually the feelings pass like they were never here at all.

"I'm moving a couple things to the Tower today," Bruce says when Steve finally climbs to his feet. "Want to come with me?"

"Yeah," Steve says around the burr in his voice. "I just—gotta make a phone call first."

* * *

"I will speak with Erik," Charles says at last. It's clear he's not ecstatic about strongarm tactics, but they both know this way's less barbaric than sitting idle while people are killed. Even people who sorta might be setting themselves up for it. "I'm sure your efforts will be appreciated."

"Thank you, sir," Steve says.

Charles pauses for a moment, then adds, " You seem preoccupied."

"Yeah," Steve admits, wondering if he's got an audience or if Charles needs to be touching him to see his thoughts with any clarity. If he can lock on to someone over distances and pick through memories like they're old photo albums. He's not sure he wants to know. "Long story."

"Well, then I look forward to seeing you next Monday, Steven."

They hang up, Steve's thumb hovering absently over the call log. Maybe having the conversation would help; maybe Charles already knows most of it. He slides his phone into his back pocket and goes inside, waits for his eyes to adjust. Three figures at the dining room table resolve themselves into familiar faces.

When Bruce said _a couple things_ , he apparently meant Thor and Loki.

"No," Loki's saying firmly. He's dressed in a pair of loose cotton pants, low on his hips and well clear of the fresh bandages on his belly and chest. He's shirtless otherwise, his hair impossibly dark against the almost colorless flesh of his neck and collarbones. It's a lot longer these days.

"It would be most expedient," Thor argues, angled meaningfully toward his brother. "Your injuries require mindful care—"

"You are a brute," Loki snaps, "that I would not trust to carry a basket of eggs, let alone to haul my damaged person across the skies as though I were one of your maidens!"

"I figured we could take one of Tony's cars," Bruce says, quietly amused. "That is, if Steve doesn't mind driving."

"There are no maidens," Thor says uncomfortably. "Loki, I—"

" _Thor_ ," Loki warns.

Steve talks a half-step back. "I'll just, uh. Get the keys."

* * *

"Should we be moving him?" Steve asks, watching the Asgardians with some concern. Loki can't walk without leaning heavily on Thor, and he grimaces with every unsteady step. The wrappings on his torso are already spotted with red.

Bruce purses his lips as Thor gently tucks long, pale limbs into the backseat of a nondescript security van. "No. But he won't heal while the Chitauri can still use him to get to here. Or to Asgard." He shrugs one rounded shoulder. "The lab in my apartment has a containment chamber. We can set him up in there while we work out a more permanent solution." He pauses uneasily, hands twitching. "If he has a safety net, maybe he'll at least close up the gaping hole in his abdomen."

Twenty-five minutes later, they're guiding Loki carefully through the empty lobby of Avengers Tower. He must really be in pain, 'cause he lets them bear his weight without comment.

In the elevator, Bruce pushes a red button with a pewter hammer molded onto it. It's one of six in the colorful top row.

"Stark Tower's security protocols require secondary verification," JARVIS says apologetically. "Please confirm, Prince Odinson."

"You need to put your hand on the pad," Bruce says to Thor, nodding toward the gray panel. Thor glances at Steve searchingly before doing so.

"I know, it's weird for me, too," Steve mutters.

"My friend," Thor says thoughtfully as they step out into the living space, "there are many structures in Asgard that activate in much the same manner."

Thor's floor opens into a round chamber of rough stone, with wall-hangings and rugs and heavy oak doors. It's not open and airy like Steve's suite, but compact and heavy and close. As they wander through the long halls and blocky rooms, he notices the hunted way Bruce's eyes linger in corners and shadows. Steve feels sorta trapped too, but there's wonder on Thor's face and a relaxed set to his shoulders. He probably feels right at home here.

"Oh, look," Loki says, voice desert-dry. "A hearth and a bear pelt."

"So I see," Thor says fondly. "Luxuries you favor greatly, my brother." Loki doesn't deign to reply, but something in the rigid angle of his spine comes loose. There's a mosaic set into the back wall of the main living area, so detailed it almost looks painted. He skims his fingertips over the bold jewel tones with fascination.

The bedroom's huge, with double-doors that open out onto a stone balcony. It's a strange combination: the modern New York skyline in a fifteenth-century frame.

The bed's nearly half again as big as Steve's own, dark red and black with silver accents. Loki lowers himself onto it very slowly, Thor's hands steady around his ribs.

Bruce watches them from the doorway. "Loki. I'll get a space set up for you in my lab. We can at least make you comfortable for the next few days until Tony figures something out."

"Shall I aid you in your labors?" Thor asks, even as his hand tangles in the sheets near Loki's elbow.

Steve shakes his head. He's pretty sure Thor hasn't slept since yesterday. "You guys just get some rest."

"I'll let you know when I'm ready for him," Bruce adds. Thor nods hesitantly, perching his bulk on the very edge of the bed.

Loki sighs, long-suffering. It comes out as a kinda wet wheeze. "First remove your shoes, oaf. And Doctor Banner," he adds stiffly: "You have my gratitude. I had not expected sympathy."

There's a story in Bruce's eyes, about having something inside you waiting to break free. How, when you're not careful, it can slip outta you and hurt the people you'd do anything to protect. But all he says is, "Don't mention it. I'm just hedging my bets against your sudden but inevitable betrayal." He smiles tiredly. "On your honor, I expect a quick and painless death."

Loki's brittle laugh follows them out.

* * *

"So that was nice," Bruce mentions when they're back on the elevator. "In a claustrophobic fantasy nightmare kind of way."

The button for Steve's suite is his shield in miniature, the star picked out in bright, polished silver. He hadn't noticed before. The metal's cool under his thumb, even as the verification pad warms the palm and fingers of his other hand. He studies the other buttons—black with a crimson hourglass for Natasha, purple with a green fist for Bruce. Clint's black and purple hawk and bright gold picking out the shape of Iron Man's face plate on a red backdrop.

"Earth to Steve," Bruce says quietly.

Steve looks over at him apologetically. "Sorry, yeah." He clears his throat. "Kinda a tight fit, but seems like it suited them fine."

"Tony knows what he's doing." Bruce smiles faintly, "Even if he goes a bit overboard."

"You're telling me," Steve murmurs. "Thor gets a castle inside a skyscraper, I get an apartment size of the block I grew up on."

The doors slide open silently and they step out onto the polished wood floor. That feeling stirs again—how this place is _his_ , how Tony made it just for Steve. Everything here's meant to make him feel at home, make him feel safe. Like he belongs.

Bruce nods, visibly more at ease under a high ceiling. "Mine's big, too," he says. "Plenty of privacy, a state-of-the-art lab. A place to go when things get serious." His mouth twists bitterly, but it's halfway to relief. "I couldn't have designed it better myself."

"He's really something."

Bruce's mouth quirks up at the corners. "No one's really gotten me like Tony does. Not right off the bat, anyway, and not since—," he makes a short gesture that somehow translates to _giant green rage monster_ , "—the accident. He and Pepper, even JARVIS, they're like family to me." His fingers knot together loosely. "You all are."

Steve's palms itch at his sides, but he keeps them still. Tony hadn't gotten him at all in the beginning.

"What's that?" Bruce asks suddenly. Steve follows his gaze.

In the room where Steve stowed his art supplies, peeking out through the half-open door, Natasha's painting leans against the back wall.

"I finished it a couple days ago," Steve says awkwardly as Bruce goes to inspect. "Not sure what I'll do with it yet."

"It's—good, Steve," Bruce says after a minute.

"Thought it might be kinda dark," Steve mentions, feeling echoes of that horrible, sticky blackness that ate him up from the inside out when he'd signed the thing. "I felt bad making her less, ah. Beautiful. Than she is."

Bruce steps back, shaking his head. "These shadows here, the way you have the dark paint bleeding into the clean contours of her face—," he pauses abruptly. "It's exactly right. You're very talented, Steve."

Uncomfortable under such blunt praise, Steve asks, "Do you want a drink or something?" He's pretty sure the refrigerator's stocked.

"No thanks," Bruce says, tearing his eyes away from the portrait. "I have an oversized cot to track down and some medical equipment to rearrange."

"Can I help?" Steve asks.

"Nah," Bruce replies. "I feel like being alone in my own space for a while."

Steve nods. He understands completely.

Bruce half-smiles and retreats to the elevator. Steve hesitates, then calls after him, "Do you want it?"

Bruce looks back at him blankly. Then his thick eyebrows shoot up over his glasses. "The painting?"

"I didn't make it to keep it," Steve explains. "Just need something to do with my hands sometimes." He clears his throat. "It'll only gather dust if it stays here."

Bruce studies him for a long moment, serious and opaque. "All right. Yeah, I'd—I'd love to have it. Thank you, Steve."

He doesn't realize 'til much later: how maybe this is the first time in a long time Bruce can even do something as mundane as hang up a painting. 'Cause he's not on the run anymore. 'Cause he's got a place to call home now.

They all do.

* * *

Steve finishes unpacking over the next couple hours. Tony must've stopped by late last night, 'cause he's stuck little yellow notes all over everything. Probably in-between working out how to suppress Hulk transformations and making break-up plans with Pepper, Steve thinks bitterly.

He skims the familiar handwriting: _J places grocery order sundays_ is stuck to the fridge, and _laundry chute_ sits crookedly over a smooth square of glass set into the wall in the master bathroom. Even the television set's got a little yellow square in the middle of the screen. _All movies digital, see tablet/coffee table_ , Tony's written. So Steve does.

The glass brightens under his hands, smooth and fluid, and Steve almost drops it when he realizes what he's looking at: the last seventy years at his fingertips, ordered by date and color-coded by genre. Steve scrolls dumbly through the list, helpless and amazed. He's gotten so used to losing that he doesn't know what to do with the feeling of getting something back. After all he's left behind, the past was just another part of his life he'd written off.

Some of the titles flash as he scrolls by, and he discovers Tony's left notes in the actual tablet, too. Curiously, he selects one from the science section: _This has been disproved, but interesting to see how they were led_ _to that conclusion_ flashes across the top of the summary. Another few pages down reads, _Still new so don't accept it completely until more heavily peer-reviewed_.

The music section's mostly full of complaints and praise for various 'best-of' albums. Steve sets down the tablet, suddenly conscious of how easy it'd be to lose hours scrolling through lists in wild fascination.

The note on the door into the library reads, _Holding a physical book is nice and all_ _but nothing beats word search_. The handwriting gets messier the longer the note goes on. _Bookshelf-books for browsing and general interest. Anything more in-depth J can get on ereader_.

Steve pulls out a 'bookshelf-book' and flips through it. It's a heavily illustrated volume about space, with diagrams of the planets in the solar system and photographs so clear he can't imagine how they could come from so far away. He spends a half hour reading about the Hubble telescope before he manages to set it aside.

Then he asks JARVIS, haltingly, "When did we go to the moon?"

"Nineteen sixty-nine, sir."

Steve thinks about the nineteen forty-three Stark Expo, how today he's got a phone that can fit in the palm of his hand. Seventy years ago he went to sleep under a blanket of foreign constellations, and now he's awake in a world where the moon is a _destination_. Super-soldier serums, flying robots, alien gods. Wormholes over New York City. There's so much to catch up on, and how can you make the pieces fit when you come in at the tail end?

"For general interest, I believe you will find _A Briefer History of Time_ quite accessible, Captain Rogers." JARVIS mentions. "There is a physical copy on the left middle shelf."

"Thanks, JARVIS," Steve says on an exhale. He pulls the book for later.

When he gets around to hanging up his clothes, he finds the Captain America uniform clean and gleaming right at the front of the closet. There's other stuff, too—jeans and t-shirts, blazers Steve probably wouldn't've bought in a million years—all arranged in easy reach of the door. A yellow and red hooded sweatshirt's got a note with a sloppy smiley face stuck on it. He looks closer. There's a little geometric shape in the center, teal on white.

Steve shakes his head, exasperated. He can't keep the fond smile off his face, even as he slides everything back outta the way to make room for his usual slacks and button-downs.

Around eleven, just as he's thinking about lunch and a movie—maybe something with Mae West, he's always had a thing for her—his phone hums meaningfully from his back pocket. He unlocks the screen to find a multimedia message from Tony.

 _Not appropriate,_ Steve texts back.

The next photo is the same, except Tony's hand's wrapped around the thick length. _Better?_

Steve calls him.

"Come to bed," Tony answers sleepily. Steve wonders who on the goddamn earth wakes up thinking about sending filthy pictures. "Wanna fuck you again."

'Cause of Steve's enhanced healing, he doesn't ache from last night. But the memory of the pressure, of Tony pushing inside him, settles like white heat low in his belly. He thinks of Tony's wet mouth, his hooded eyes. His hands, how they never stop touching anything they can reach.

"I'm at the Tower," Steve says.

"I could come to you," Tony suggests. "And on you. In you."

Steve swallows delicately. "You got three hours of sleep. Why're you even up?"

Tony's quiet for a sec. Then he says, "Funny story, my best friend computer mentioned you were having panic attacks."

"Just the one," Steve admits. "A small one. He wake you to tell you that?"

"No. He left an alert," Tony says, irritated. "Which I didn't see until I got out of bed to go to the bathroom, despite his very explicit instructions to keep me updated on the health and well-being of my crazy super-family at all times." There's the shift and rustle of clothing close to the phone. He's getting dressed, maybe. Steve swallows quietly.

"My _explicit instructions_ include an inviolate primary function which involves monitoring and maintaining the health and wellness of Mister Stark himself. This supersedes any and every auxiliary protocol," JARVIS explains. Steve's not sure if he's talking on Tony's end or his, then realizes he probably just tapped into the connection. Huh. "I am particularly disinclined to interrupt him on those rare occasions when he actively chooses to sleep," JARVIS adds.

"Yeah, and if I remember right, I specifically hardcoded your _primary function_ to be _whatever I tell you_ —"

"As I am sure you recall from our previous discussions on the matter," JARVIS says cheerfully, "The autonomic nature of my programming allows me to revise and expand my code as needed, to better reflect my ever-growing experience and knowledge base."

"I never should've given you free will," Tony mutters. "I've created a monster."

"Apples and trees, Sir."

Tony snorts. "Still there, Cap?"

"Still here," Steve replies. Then his phone hums again, and he pulls it away from his ear to look at the screen. It's another text, this time from Clint.

"How long have you been having panic attacks?" Tony asks seriously.

"Since this morning," Steve says. "Probably. Hang on a sec."

He opens the message. _Three medium-sized business owners, one politician, and a chairman on the board of directors for a local non-profit. Cakewalk so far. Nat is terrifying._

"Hello? Steve?"

"Yeah?"

Tony lets out a frustrated breath. "Look, I told you we should have talked about it first. I'm not sorry because it's not completely my fault, I'd definitely argue that you wouldn't take no for an answer—"

"What—"

"—so yeah I rushed it, okay, that part was on me, but you make me so _crazy_ sometimes—"

"Slow down," Steve says when he gets his head around whatever the heck Tony's talking about. "It wasn't the sex, Tony." Then, 'cause there's no way around it: "Natasha and Clint know. Heard us last night. Kinda threw me for a loop when they confronted me about it."

There's a beat of silence.

"Shit," Tony says softly.

"Right," Steve says.

"Well. After tonight it won't matter that much." He sounds brittle, but resolved.

All at once, Steve really wishes he was with Tony right now. He even takes a few steps in the direction of the elevator, but eventually decides against it. They'll see each other tonight, and Tony's got sleep to catch up on and work to do. So he settles on, "We could've handled this better."

"Yeah, well, too late to go back now," Tony tells him, breezy and clipped with an undertone of heat. "You broke the rules. Your soul belongs to me."

* * *

"You have what is known as a whitelist," JARVIS explains later, after Steve's more or less settled in. "It tracks individuals who currently have access to your floor. They can be added or removed at any time, on a conditional or unconditional basis."

"Who's currently got access?" Steve's halfway through putting together a sandwich. He licks mustard off the long knife outta old habit.

"Yourself and Mister Stark are permitted on your floor at any time. Doctor Banner, Agent Romanov, Agent Barton, and Prince Odinson are permitted during daylight hours while you are present, unless you are sleeping or otherwise indisposed. Prince Laufeyson is not permitted without express invitation, so the elevator will not stop at your floor without your override."

Steve takes a thoughtful bite of his lunch. "Tony have unconditional access to every floor?"

JARVIS pauses briefly. "He is not specifically whitelisted for all of them, no."

"But if he were to ask you," Steve presses.

"In most circumstances, certainly."

Well. It's his Tower, after all. "What's his floor like?" Steve asks curiously.

"As you have unconditional access," JARVIS mentions, "perhaps you would like to see for yourself?"

Steve sets his sandwich down and tries to get used to the idea of this—how he feels—maybe going both ways. He was never really a lucky guy when it came to getting the things he wanted.

He finishes eating and rinses off his plate. "Well. I got some time to kill."

"Very good, Sir."

* * *

He expected Tony's home to be strange, maybe incomprehensible, but it's actually nice—beautiful, even, though it could just be Steve's getting use to the modern world.

Steve wanders, room by room, through Tony's private, streamlined, overly-technical suite. The floors are glossy black, the furniture angular and clean; clear glass panels that respond to Steve's curious fingers take the place of most walls, and aside from a few older models of the Iron Man suit, he hasn't got much on display.

The kitchen's chrome and white, smaller than Steve's and mostly stocked with booze, and there's what Steve takes to be an office: it's got dozens of monitors hooked up with some other electronic equipment Steve can't make heads or tails of. He wonders what it's for.

Steve finds Tony's room on the other side of two frosted, semi-opaque doors. The huge bed's got plush red covers that stand out against the bare white walls, and in the bathroom's what looks like a tiny swimming pool instead of a tub. There's no television, which surprises Steve; there's a minibar by the nightstand, which doesn't. The windows wrap all the way around the corner of the Tower, offering an unobstructed panorama of the city. Kinda reminds Steve of that night at the hotel.

When he notices the mirror on the ceiling, he squints up at it thoughtfully. He tries to decide if he's appalled or intrigued, even gets as far as contemplating certain logistical angles before noticing the grooves around the edges.

Then he realizes it's a screen. It probably comes down within arm's reach of the bed—like maybe Tony spends sleepless nights on his back, even if he's dog-tired, always working 'cause his brain just won't shut off. Steve sits down slowly, hands opening over the bedspread, and wonders if Tony's even slept here yet.

He glances down when his nail catches on something. Then his eyebrows go up.

Red covers, white pillowcases and sheets—and, when he pulls the comforter back, sky-blue patterned with silver stars on the reverse.

Thing is, people say all kindsa crap and Tony's no different. So Tony saying he's breaking up with Pepper, Tony half-joking about being boyfriends and getting _married_ —it's just words. Steve's got a hard time believing what's said before it's been done.

But now, here, alone in Tony's bedroom—'cause he's got _unconditional access to it_ , Steve realizes with a gravity he didn't before—he stares at the stupid Captain America-themed sheets and thinks, Okay. All right. We're really gonna do this.

The idea sits inside him, heavy like a bullet in his heart. Maybe the immediate complications'll be worth eventual serenity.

Steve toes off his shoes and socks, sets his phone on the nightstand and slides in under the covers. The pillows don't smell like Tony, but they smell like his laundry soap. It's enough. "Hey, JARVIS?"

"Yes, Captain Rogers?"

"Can you play— _I'm No Angel_?"

"Of course, Sir."

The screen above Tony's bed fades on, sinks down by inches 'til it's all Steve can see. The advanced sound and video systems call attention to every burr in the track, every flaw in the recorded film: images soft like old photographs, voices and music tinny and distant like they're coming through an old car radio. It hasn't got the crystal clarity of today's technology, or the kinda soundtrack where the actors are almost there in the room with you.

But what it _has_ got: the eternal twilight of a black and white carnival. Bright lights hazy like stars on rippled water, the perfect curve of Mae West's round face. Music and images that come into being like pale ghosts and steadily grow solid as memory fills in the gaps.

That's what movies used to be: what you're meant to see, not what's actually there. The reality the metaphor represents.

This is what Steve's thinking about—life as a playact, the stage and the props less for what they are, and more for they story they create—when Tony's bedroom door opens.

"I had to use the override codes again," she says, her pale gold suit and the copper of her hair spilling against the white walls like wealth, like new money, like treasure. She glances around the room like she's seeing it for the first time, nonplussed. "Really, Tony, you can remember to hook up a spectrometer but forget to add me—to..."

In the exact moment Pepper realizes it's Steve in Tony's bed and not Tony, her expression shifts from mild irritation to blank surprise for the briefest of instants. Then it closes off all together.

Steve climbs hastily outta the bed, smoothing the wrinkles in his pants.

Pepper looks from Steve's bare feet to Mae West's bright, disarming smile without expression. Then her eyes fall to the bed and something in her face crumples.

"Steve," she says steadily, setting her purse on an angular chest of drawers. "What are you doing here?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tony's room goes dim as a cloud passes over the sun, casting the city outside in shadow. In the sudden gloom, Pepper's shoulders cut severe lines all the way down to the slim knots of her hands. The treasure's melted away: she doesn't glitter at all. There's nothing left but the brittle crystals of her eyes, shining in the semi-darkness like broken bottles._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor updates/corrections as of 2013AUG22.

When Steve Rogers was fifteen, just about eighty years ago, he sat in a silvered movie theater watching Mae West on the big screen. She'd been playing this floozy named Tira, kinda dame who went around with a lotta guys. Always careless with the fellas who'd fall for her, always shameless about taking what she wanted.

Well, one day a tall-dark-and-handsome sort happened to stick. It'd been the real thing, the first time she'd ever fallen in love. They were gonna get married.

But Tira was also a working girl, big act in a circus troupe. She wanted to leave that life behind for something more high-society glamorous; and, 'cause her boss didn't wanna lose all the money she was bringing in, he set her up. Schemed with one of her old boyfriends, made it look like she was stepping out on her fiance.

Thing is, once upon a time, Tira _was_ that dame. She'd gotten a reputation you couldn't trust far as you could throw her. But she was also a fast talker—and, at least this time around, she happened to be perfectly innocent.

Your past's your past; you're not guilty just for having it. But on the other hand, people don't usually change all that much. So it's asking a lot for someone to trust you in spite of it.

So Steve, when he was some young punk kid, scrawny and breathless in the dark, blown away by Mae West 'cause she was gorgeous, she walked around like she owned the whole damn world, and she never took any crap from anybody: even Steve'd thought, There's being fair and there's being stupid.

But Steve went on to lie on his military application, every time he filled it out, right up 'til Erskine called him on his crap and got the straight story. Steve wasn't a fast talker then and he's not now, but he was earnest. He got lucky. He'd thought he was lying for a good cause, even if he might think differently now.

So when Erskine got him enlisted, gave him a fair shot, it wasn't under false pretenses. It was just in spite of who he was, and not 'cause of. Bottom line, Tira was a classless showgirl and married a wealthy society man; Steve was a sack of bones with asthma and arrhythmia, prone to chills and exhaustion, and he became a war hero.

Steve's not in a movie. He's not innocent. And, as far as owning the world—well. He doesn't even really belong in it.

* * *

Time stands still as the weight of Pepper's question hangs heavy between them. The set of her spine's lethal, a breaking point, terrible to behold.

Tony's room goes dim as a cloud passes over the sun, casting the city outside in shadow. In the sudden gloom, Pepper's shoulders cut severe lines all the way down to the slim knots of her hands. The treasure's melted away: she doesn't glitter at all. There's nothing left but the brittle crystals of her eyes, shining in the semi-darkness like broken bottles.

"Steve," she prompts.

Steve swallows thickly. "I was. Watching a movie."

"Where's Tony?" She turns her head, searching. She's got the profile of a goddess, strong and predatory, almost vindictive. Steve's not fit to breathe her air.

"Not sure," Steve answers honestly. His blood slips through his veins like oil, toxic and slick in his chest. A distillation of poison in every creaky joint, the Tin Man without a heart. This was never gonna be okay. "Haven't seen him since this morning."

Pepper glances back at him, sharp, her eyes softening into something wary and just this side of hope. Like she's maybe second-guessing herself.

We were in bed together, Steve thinks wretchedly.

Too soon, her uncertainty disappears. In its place, tiny fissures tighten around her eyes as she puts the pieces together: "Then how did you get in?"

Steve fishes for something to give her, anything that could buy him some time. Time for what? He thinks angrily. You're a coward, Rogers.

"I have access," he admits. It isn't fair, but at least it's the truth.

The silence stretches. Steve's shoulders are stiff and restless, and he's gotta fight the urge to clench his fists. Stillness, inaction—they devour him by inches. He wishes he were anywhere else.

Eventually Pepper speaks, her voice soft in the empty air. "He's been avoiding me for weeks, you know." She shifts her weight to her left leg, crosses her arms over her body and turns her head to the window. Stares out over the gray city. "He gets—caught up in things. Projects."

Steve swallows, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

She says, "I thought he just needed some space. After New York."

Says, "I didn't think—"

 _I haven't slept with her since I started sleeping with you_ , Tony'd sworn.

"I didn't _think_."

"I'm sorry," Steve says. He's got nothing else.

Pepper doesn't seem to hear him, her gaze fixed on the bed instead. Steve glances down, realizes he's still got a hand on it. Moral support in crimson and silver and bright, endless blue.

"Are those—are those _Captain America bedsheets_ ," Pepper asks in a small voice.

Steve's cell goes off on the nightstand, the muted melody of an incoming call . The suddenness cuts through the air like a foghorn, but neither of them move. They don't even flinch.

"Don't think they're—branded," Steve murmurs helplessly. "Officially. Uh. But yeah, I—it looks that way."

"Oh my god," Pepper breathes. Then she starts to cry.

It's not right, watching somebody fall apart in front of you, keeping your hands idle while they're in pain. But there's no battle Steve could fight for her; all he could he offer is to wish away something he can't even bring himself to regret. Even now, even as he's paying for it. Even as _she_ is.

He oughta leave, at least. Give her the privacy of her own grief. But he can't make himself move.

He's had enough of dames being left behind to last him another seven decades.

Pepper scrubs at her wet face and starts to say, "Do you know—," except she chokes a little on the words. Makes a jagged, horrible sound in the back of her throat that breaks and echoes between them.

There's no helping it. Steve goes to her.

"Don't." Pepper says. Loose strands of hair cling to her cheeks around red-rimmed eyes. There's a faint smear of black where her makeup's run, but the look she throws him is fierce. She reaches out and wraps her thin fingers around his wrist. "How long?"

"Ma'am?"

Pepper shakes her head, a short jerk from left to right. "Tell me," she pleads.

One of the smooth wall panels hums to life with a series of small, electronic sounds Steve wouldn't've heard if he wasn't also Captain America. Light spills across the dull room, brightening half of Pepper's face, throwing her tears into sharp relief.

She lets Steve's arm fall. They both turn toward the screen as, with the worst timing possible, Tony's face appears. "If you don't pick up your phone," he points out, "how am I supposed tell you about the _fantastic progress we have made_ on Loki's chesthole?"

There's a still moment at the heart of the storm where Tony hasn't noticed Pepper yet, where Steve takes in the deep, dark crescents under his eyes and wants to ask, Did you get any sleep at all today? When what he oughta be asking is, What've we done, Tony. How could we let this happen.

But then his mind catches up with what Tony's saying, always a step behind, always _late_ : and he breaks the spell. "...Chesthole?"

"Chest wormhole," Tony says dismissively, the restless fingers of one hand dancing across the screen. "Shorter than 'psychotechnical core transport mecha—'," he comes up short. The color drains from his face.

"Hi, Tony," Pepper says stiffly.

"Pepper. Pepper, why are you crying." There's a panicky edge to Tony's voice as he leans forward, the screen shaking a bit. Probably he bumped the desk he's got his tablet propped up on.

"Were you ever going to tell me that you _broke up with me_ ," she demands, the bright flash of fury briefly eclipsing her grief. "Or were you just going to keep _locking me out_ until I got the picture?"

"Christ, Steve, what were you _doing_ , Jay just said you were watching a movie!"

" _I'm No Angel_ ," JARVIS supplies politely.

"I—," Steve says.

" _JARVIS_." Pepper calls. She doesn't tilt her head back and direct her words at the ceiling like Steve does. "Override alpha-seven-tiger-six-two-eight, how long has Tony been _cheating on me_."

"Miss Potts—," JARVIS attempts, distress clear in his synthetic voice.

"He isn't a spy, Pepper, fuck." Tony rakes a hand through the mess of his hair. "I was going to tell you tonight!"

Pepper stares at him through the proxy of technology. "You were taking me out to dinner," she says caustically, "for the first time in almost _two months_ —so you could tell me about your _affair with Captain America_?"

"It's not like that—"

Pepper makes a noise of extreme disbelief.

"—okay, it's not _exactly_ —look. Give me ten minutes," Tony says desperately. "I just—we need to talk about this, just give me—give me seven minutes and I'll be right over and we can—"

" _Anthony Edward Stark_ ," Pepper shrieks.

Tony shuts up, but his eyes say everything. Steve feels sick.

"When I get back," she says, "we'll talk about—about how we're going to handle Stark Industries moving forward."

"Where are you going?" Tony asks anxiously.

"Would you like me to call a car for you, Miss Potts?" JARVIS offers gently.

"No, I—," she cuts herself off, appears to make a decision. "Can you forward the EOC checklist on my personal server to my phone?"

"It is done, Miss Potts," JARVIS replies. "I have taken the liberty of highlighting the establishments within walking distance."

"Thank you, JARVIS."

"What about dinner?" Tony fumbles the tablet again, knocking into a desk lamp or something that causes shadows to stutter wildly over his face.

"What about it?" She asks tightly, her hand on the bedroom door.

" _Pepper_. Please," Tony begs.

Pepper flinches, but she ultimately ignores him. "I knew better," she says to Steve instead, her voice soft and hoarse. "I knew better than anyone. I was his PA for almost ten years, his CEO for the last two, his girlfriend for maybe half that. This is how he treats me: like I'm just another one-night stand for someone else to show out."

Tony stares at her, stricken.

She tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "People can change what they do for a while, but they never change who they are. Everyone is disposable to Tony Stark." That fierce look surfaces again, and Steve's heart thuds heavily in the cage of his ribs. "Give it a month, Steve. Give it six. Give it a year. You'll be standing where I am now."

She doesn't look angry anymore. She just looks sad. Then she's gone.

Tony disappears from the screen for a long forty-three seconds, and Steve can hear echoes of his voice down the halls of the suite as he follows her to the elevator. Then he flickers back, furious. "What the fuck, Rogers? What did you tell her?"

"Nothing," Steve says shortly, numb. "Didn't tell her a damn thing,Tony."

"That," Tony growls, "was _not_ 'nothing'. You couldn't fucking wait until I talked to her? You had to—to set this up like—"

"I didn't set anything up," Steve says defensively. So this's how they're gonna play it? Fine. It's not like Steve doesn't already feel like dirt. He'll be damned if he's gonna stand here and let Tony pin _this_ on him, too. "I wanted to see what your place looked like. You gave me access. I was here when Pepper tried to get in." He should've left ten minutes ago, an hour ago. He should've never come at all.

"How did—wait, where are you going?"

"You think she wouldn't've noticed the goddamned bedsheets, you're outta your mind.".

"She would not have _seen them_ ," Tony's voice follows him into the hall, condescending like Steve's some kinda idiot. His face appears on the next flat surface Steve passes, frustrated and angry in a frame of glossy gray. "She did not have _access_."

"Your girlfriend's gotta use override codes to get into the apartment she's supposed to share with you!" Steve finally shouts. "How's that not drawing a clear line, Stark?"

Something flashes across Tony's face, too quick to see. "Stop. Steve. _Steve_."

Steve shakes his head, activating the elevator panel. "I can't talk to you right now."

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Tony swears, "you too?"

The elevator door slides shut, locking Steve in alone with his thoughts. He rides it down to his own floor, the silence closing in around him like millions of pounds of ocean.

* * *

He changes outta his borrowed clothes into loose, worn sweats and a soft t-shirt. Tightens the laces on a new pair of tennis shoes, rocks back and forth from heel to toe. They need to be broken in.

The sky's still overcast, bits of sunlight cutting strange patterns through the clouds, when Steve hits the pavement. He means to start out easy, but his muscles sing with the first few steps and his lungs drink in the humid air 'til he feels like he'll burst if he doesn't go harder. The sidewalk flies by beneath his feet, gives way to asphalt and, for a few short seconds, brick. At one point he's running parallel to the water, the distant storm finally making itself visible out over the choppy waves. There's the solid, rhythmic clatter as he crosses a wood bridge; the soft, almost seamless drum of his soles as he cuts through a patch of grass.

Hours pass, and the first lick of thunder's already bursting across the sky before Steve even realizes it's raining. When he finally slows down, his breath coming in deep rasps, he becomes aware of two things: that he's not at all sure what neighborhood he's in, and that he's starving.

A close third's that he didn't bring his wallet with—or anything else, for that matter. And the sky's opening up in earnest now, loud and rumbling and wet, so even if there'd been anyone around, the streets've long since cleared out.

Steve runs a hand over his face, brushing sweat and rain from his eyes. He's in a long, dark alleyway between two rundown tenement buildings. Dumpsters and fire escapes all around, far as the eye can see, and a thin slice of bruised sky high above. He ducks under a halfway serviceable awning and tries to think of a place he can go without thinking about the place he left.

That's the worst part about running—eventually you gotta stop, and then all you're running from catches up with you.

“Hey guy, a little help here?”

Steve jerks in surprise, whips around to see—

—exactly nobody behind him.

"I'm at a low place in my life right now," the voice says again, "specifically the vicinity of your shoes. Which are nice, by the way, are they Nikes? They look new." Steve glances down.

Then he steps back, bemused.

"Yeah, I get that alot. I mean, there's screamers, too, but it's nice to meet a guy with a level head. Strong, silent type? Reassuring. Good to see a trope now and then, long as it's not overdone. No need to beat a dead horse, but references are important." High on the grimy wall behind him, there's a huge spatter, runny and red in the rain. "You make stuff too original or random, lose the thread of the plot, play around with slice-of-life garbage, well, you start to lose context. Start to forget you're in a story, and where does that leave you? Not marrying any billionaires, that's for sure."

Wedged between a trashcan, some rubble, and a rust-stained cement stoop, there's a masked human head leaking gore. It's got a black and red spandex mask stretched over the face, but the jaw works this way and that like it's alive. And it's still talking to Steve, even through the heavy roar of the storm and the fast-rising water threatening to submerge it.

Steve's lost his goddamned mind, 'cause he reaches down to pull it out. Some spine comes up too, and the mask's got stains and bits of rotten food stuck on it. It's pretty disgusting.

"—oh, wait, no, this is the one with the happy ending," the head's saying in a bored, singsong voice. "Guess that's fine, readers get tired of the hero-riding-off-into-the-sunset-forever-alone routine—"

"Who are you?" Steve asks finally, when he can get a word in. The head's surprisingly heavy, the center of balance awkward and inconstant. He worries he'll drop the thing, and the way the mouth keeps moving doesn't make it any easier.

"—but, to be fair, it's way worse firing them into space. Terribly un-bro-like behavior, they were BFFs, who even does that—oh. My hero," the head says brightly. "I didn't even have to ask. Wanna stick me back with the rest of my body? I'm in the dumpster. And either someone chose to identify as childfree pretty late in the game, or there's a rat sucking on my thumb."

So Steve finds himself fishing through garbage late on a Friday afternoon, in the pouring rain, talking to a disembodied head that basically ignores you but never actually shuts up. It does him the service of a distraction, though. 'S all he could really ask for. There're no sign of discarded newborns, but a giant rat shuffles grotesquely into a ratty, oil-stained takeout bag.

"So you look like you work out," the head says from where Steve's set it on the steps. "I work out, too. My shoulders are almost as big as yours, no thanks to a magic potion."

Steve freezes from where he's pulling the last limb—most of a leg, tore off right above the knee—outta the dumpster. "What?"

"Oh," the head says, surprised. "Did you not know that I know who you are?" There's a slight, thoughtful pause. "Wait, d'you not know who _I_ am?"

"No," Steve says. He arranges the body parts in the middle of the alley best he can. The rain washes most of the blood and filth away. Wherever the costume's ripped open, the skin looks pale and waxy. Steve fits them together like a morbid puzzle, wondering vaguely if he's hallucinating this entire thing.

"I'm appalled and depressed," the head says, sounding neither, as Steve settles it against a ragged set of collar bones. Looks like this guy was blown into neat chunks, localized detonation. "Way to kill my ego, man. Wanna get Mexican after this? My treat."

Steve watches for the next ten minutes as the flesh kinda stitches itself back together, muscles long and ropey like thin fingers, translucent layers of fat and tissue flowing like viscous liquid. Eventually, the man's rolling gracefully up to his feet, squaring his shoulders, cracking his back. He's limber for a man who oughta be dead.

He's not quite as tall as Steve, or broad; but his tattered, skin-tight getup illustrates pretty clearly he's in peak physical form. Aside from his recent dismemberment.

Steve's at a point in his life where he really just doesn't wanna know.

"So. Mexican," the man says. "Oh, wait, hang on a sec." Then he kicks back up into the dumpster.

Steve thinks, I may as well've just tossed the head in there with the rest, let him sort himself out.

The man resurfaces with a couple swords, a couple guns, and some kinda utility belt. Steve's not sure what utilities you put into a bunch of tiny pouches.

"All accounted for." Part of the man's grin distorts the pull of his mask, while the other part's almost visible beneath the shredded fabric near his jaw. "C'mon, I know this great place up on third." Then he darts off.

Steve follows, but only 'cause his stomach folds over on itself, pointedly reminding him of the virtues of a free meal.

* * *

The guy calls himself Wade, and even after twenty minutes out in the torrential downpour cloaking the whole of New York City, he still smells kinda like blood. Not as much like trash, though, which Steve's grateful for. He felt bad enough walking into the tiny corner joint dripping water all over the floor.

Wade orders about half the menu from an older man who doesn't look the least bit surprised to see him. Steve watches from a plastic booth near the window, his sweats squelching under his thighs.

"So you ever find yourself with a beautiful girl," Wade says nonchalantly, plopping down across from him with three trays of precariously-stacked food. Most of it's in little plastic baskets. "Startlingly blue eyes—or maybe they were green—and she's telling you she wants you?"

It's on the tip of Steve's tongue to say yes, but he just shakes his head. Tony's not a girl. And anyway, he can't even be bothered to break up with his own damn girlfriend before she finds out about his own damn affair, so how's that for wanting?

"Yeah, me neither," Wade sighs lustily, watching Steve tear into the food. "Don't get me wrong, it's always nice when they knock me around a bit—between you and me, I like a rough touch—but blowing off my arms is not conducive to romance. And d'you know how much of a pain it is, having new costumes made all the time? Weak."

"What, uh," Steve says around something called a chimichanga. It's surprisingly good. "What happened?"

"You just do your job, collect a paycheck," Wade says, peeling up his mask halfway so he can eat. He's got terrible scars over his jaw and chin and mouth, creeping down across his throat. They're white and whorled, and every time Steve glances away and then back, they seem like they've moved. "Maybe flirt a bit with the competition. It's not a bad gig. Lotsa nubile young people to look at." He grimaces. "Jealous boyfriends with explosive projectiles notwithstanding."

"Thanks for dinner," Steve says seriously, wiping his mouth and reaching for a soft-shell taco.

"Thanks for putting me back together, Hoss."

Steve looks at him.

"King's-Men? Horses? Sunsets, even." Wade shakes his head. "What, were you born under a rock? Don't answer that. Wanna get ice cream after?"

* * *

Steve doesn't get ice cream after. He feels sorta bad about it, 'cause he gets the feeling Wade hasn't got a lotta friends. Or maybe he's got tons and they just take shifts, since Steve's also got the feeling Wade's a small-doses kinda guy.

Regardless, he just waggles his fingers and says, "See ya 'round, Hoss," before stepping back outside into the rain. He's long gone before Steve even thinks to ask if he's got anywhere to go, or maybe a phone Steve could call. It'd be nice to have someone to lift weights with, maybe.

More practically, he could've at least asked Wade for directions.

The skyline's different than it used to be, and Steve's long lost sight of the harbour. But he can just see a faint, faded circle of sunlight when he glances up at the swollen sky, so he picks a likely direction and jogs a half-dozen blocks. Eventually he finds a street he recognizes, and from there it's an easy run on a full tank.

Forty-eight minutes later, he's back at the tower. It rains right up 'til he's in his bathroom, stripping outta his wet clothes and towelling off his head and shoulders. Shoulda got his number, Steve thinks idly. He can make his own friends just fine. He wonders if Wade's a mutant.

"Welcome home, Captain Rogers," JARVIS mentions as Steve's pulling on a dry pair of slacks. "You have new messages from both Mister Stark and Agent Barton. Would you like for me to play them?"

"Not right now," Steve answers. "Thanks." He stares sullenly at his hands, tries not to clench them into fists or think about why he feels the need to. Even after three and a half hours, forty miles, and a truly bizarre afternoon, one mention of Tony and he's furious all over again.

 _I knew better_ , Pepper said. Steve knows Tony, knows he lashes out when he's afraid. But Steve still can't get it outta his system.

It's after an hour of tight heat in his arms, fire across his knuckles, and pointed ignorance of the subtle electronic notifications that keep flashing in strange places—door panels, corners of windows, once when he looked up at the glass and steel ceiling while stretching his shoulders—that he realizes he's not alone.

When he turns around, covered in sweat, his knuckles bruised and split 'cause he didn't bother with gloves, Natasha tosses him a towel.

"Thanks," he says gratefully, rubbing it over his damp face. "How long you been here?"

"About ten minutes," she says, which Steve figures is kinda long to be watching someone's back while they're working over a punching bag. She reaches forward and snatches both wrists. "You've really screwed up your hands."

"They'll heal," Steve says. And they will: any marks left on his skin evaporate into the plain air, 'cause nothing about him ever changes. Maybe that could be a metaphor, but it's probably just another piece of truth about his life. He stands still while everything else flows and warps around him, leaves him behind. Who wants to keep someone who can't be altered even a little, can't be made their own?

Natasha doesn't say anything for a long moment, studying the ragged skin and splotches of blood. Now that he's not still slamming them into the rough canvas, they've already stopped bleeding. Eventually she lets him go. "Stark's been trying to get a hold of you since lunchtime," she mentions.

Steve tries to keep his face blank, but there's no way Natasha misses how his mouth thins, how his jaw goes stiff. She doesn't comment on it, though. "Had some other stuff to do."

"I see," Natasha says, and Steve knows with a sinking kinda certainty she absolutely does. "You left your phone."

"I—did," Steve says, realizing. Natasha passes it over. He sweeps his thumb across the surface: fifteen unread text messages and three new voicemails. Huh. "JARVIS said Clint called. Earlier."

"Just an update. We've taken care of everyone on your list," she tells him "We touched base with Fury, too. As long as they get the word around that Magneto's no longer offering bounties, everything should be smooth sailing from here on out."

"You run into any trouble?"

"One or two hiccups. Nothing serious. The real reason I'm interrupting your workout," she says, glancing speculatively at Steve's hands again, "is because Stark's finalized Loki's procedure. You'll have to ask him about it—I can follow science, but magic's a little out of my league," she says ruefully. "But he wanted to set up a time where you'd be around. Bruce, too. Just in case there are any unexpected—complications."

Steve nods firmly. "How's he doing? Loki." Guiltily, he realizes he didn't touch base with Bruce even once after the showdown with Tony and Pepper. He could've stopped by to see Thor, at least.

"They moved him to the containment chamber on Bruce's level. He's in agony," Natasha says. There's no pity in her, but maybe he can make out a thread of sympathy. He wonders where her life's taken her, that she could relate to a guy with that kinda self-inflicted damage. It's not the first time he's thought about her past; it's not the first time he's pushed such thoughts away. "I guess he regenerated enough to start bleeding again."

"Bet that's going over well."

Natasha's lip twists. "About as well as you can imagine. Thor is frantic." She smears her thumb through some of the red on Steve's knuckle, but the skin's already whole beneath. "Bruce is mostly concerned about the other guy making an appearance." Her voice is carefully, perfectly neutral. "He'd kill Loki in the condition he's in."

 _They're gods_ , Steve thinks, the idea alien even now. _Loki's been around for thousands of years. Right?_ But what he says is, "Thought death was—different. For them."

"Not that different," Natasha answers. "I don't think. Not when your organs look like hashed browns."

Steve turns his head, nauseated. Natasha shrugs one shoulder, the movement rigid and compact. Steve only notices the hitch 'cause her eyes tighten—just a bit, just when he happens to be looking. "You're hurt?"

"No," Natasha says.

Steve raises his eyebrows. "Wanna tell me about those 'hiccups'?"

"Mild altercation with a hired gun," she says. "We took care of it."

Steve studies her face, impassive as granite. Asks, 'cause he'd rather know than not, "Did you kill anyone?"

"Probably not," she says. "He was pretty durable."

"Okay," Steve relents. "I'll head to the lab soon."

After she leaves, he glances down at the phone in his hand. Scrolls through the messages, frustration warring with guilt. He didn't mean to avoid Tony all day, he just needed to let off some steam.

_Steve you need to answer your phone right now_

_fuck are you really going to ignore me_

_Steve, please_

_You know what, I don't even care anymore._

Frustration tips the scale. Is this the future, then—people thinking they got a right to be angry just 'cause you don't pick up the phone for a few hours? Being at the beck and call of anyone who's got your goddamn number? Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.

_I'm sorry, i really am I just don't know how to fix this_

_Steve, please pick up._

Guilt steadily creeps back, settles loosely around his spine. He tries to look at this from Tony's point of view, and yeah—maybe it's kinda awful, waiting for a message to come back from the void.

The last three, dated an hour and half ago, aren't about Steve at all:

_look I need to talk to you about this morning_

_well, not about the Pepper thing, about the Loki thing. I think I can fix it_

_Get the fuck over yourself, we're making magi-science breakthroughs up in here._

He's not sure what he'll be walking into, whether Tony'll still be mad or if he'll've cooled off over the afternoon. Steve decides to bite the bullet and give him a call.

"What." Not even a hello. It brings Steve back to the first time he ever called Stark, before that awkward lunch at the little cafe—before Tony told him about Pepper. It's not a happy memory. It was just another link in a long chain of misunderstandings.

Steve opens his mouth, means to say, I'm calling you back. He's even thought about apologizing, but Tony's such an unbelievable bastard he can't get any words out.

Tony makes an impatient noise. "Hello? Whatever, just hurry up. Bruce's lab." The call disconnects.

Steve wonders how you can have a fight with someone who hangs up on you, how you can miss them when you're still so angry. He's not sure he's even ready to see Tony yet.

Steve takes a deep breath, tries to let go of everything he's screwed up today. There're other things on the table here, and he hasn't checked in with Loki or Thor since this morning. He bucks the heck up and takes the elevator to Bruce's floor.

* * *

"Took you long enough," Tony mentions, voice flat in a way Steve doesn't recognize. He's got goggles shoved up over his sweat-streaked forehead and what looks like the modern approximation of a blowtorch in one calloused hand. There's a scrape on the back of his wrist, a tiny cut just above it. Tension in his shoulders and neck, a stiffness to his elbows when he moves his arms.

"Had things to take care of," Steve answers. He glances over Tony to where Bruce's staring down a whole hell of a lotta numbers on a thin, transparent workscreen.

"All the theoreticals check out, but we're still shooting blind. There are bound to be other variables we haven't considered," Bruce says, flashing Steve a smile hello.

"If there were," Tony says shortly, squinting at something tiny and medallion-shaped on the table, "my perfect math would've made them glaringly obvious."

Bruce frowns, but turns back to the screen. "'Ready, fire, aim' is a bad way to do science, Tony."

"Tell you what, peaches. It blows up in my face, we'll do it your way." He pulls his goggles back down and fires up the blowtorch.

"It's not your face I'm worried about." Bruce's voice is light, but there's a speculative heaviness in his eyes as he skims through lists of data with an effortless gesture.

Steve turns away after a minute or so, since it becomes clear pretty quickly Tony's got nothing else to say to him right now. Loki's the only other person in the room, his long, loose body stretched carefully over a sofa. He's freshly bandaged, bare feet propped up on some cushions. His ankles seem bonier than they oughta, someone his size. He's got his eyes closed, his hair pooling like gasoline around his pale face. Looks like the lightest wind in the world could break him apart.

Steve figures he should just be glad Loki's not bleeding out. He pulls up a chair.

"So what've you guys got for him?" Steve asks Bruce, pointedly ignoring Tony. Two can act like bratty children just as easy as one.

Bruce lets his hand fall from the screen. "It's actually fascinating," he says, with a kinda subdued, arms-length excitement Steve's got trouble getting a read on. Then he remembers what Tony said this morning, about something that could help suppress the Hulk. This distance, it's probably something Bruce trained himself to do—not get attached, not get his hopes up. Steve turns the idea over in his mind, despairing. It's an awful way to live after so much disappointment.

"—and Loki was able to use the arc reactor technology," Bruce is saying, oblivious to Steve's inner dialogue, " in tandem with the tesseract, opening the wormhole over New York. JARVIS recorded enough data for us to model an inverted energy field at a frequency that could—"

Steve holds up a hand. "You lost me, sorry," he says, his mouth twisting.

Bruce just smiles, apologetic and fond in a way that makes Steve warm. Makes it okay, maybe, that Steve doesn't always follow everything.

But the feeling evaporates when Tony's cold, clipped voice cuts in. "The Chitauri leader has a direct psychic link to Loki's physical body," he says, angling the blowtorch dangerously close to his fingers.

"Magic?" Steve asks dryly.

"To someone like you, sure," Tony shoots back. "But since we are scientists, and reality still follows basic rules, we were able to figure some of it out." He sets aside his tools, pushes his goggles up again. When he rubs tiredly at his eyes, his fingers leave a smear of carbon high on his cheek.

Tony's an ass, and Steve's still gotta fight not to go over to him, get his hands on him. Smooth his thumb over the stain 'til it's gone. To keep himself from doing any of these things, Steve just sits quietly and waits for Tony to continue.

"So. Living beings. Sources of physical energy that someone could theoretically tap into, except it's a complete waste of time and effort for an impractically finite resource. With me so far?" He sounds bored, his eyes fixed on something past Steve's shoulder.

"People are cheap batteries," Steve says, jaw tight.

"Close enough. Now, being functionally immortal, Asgardians have some extra juice. When Loki promised the tesseract to the Chitauri in exchange for their army of bloodthirsty monsters—like that had any potential at all to go sideways—he agreed to have that link, that bridge or portal or whatever you wanna call it, grafted onto his energy signature. For collateral. If circumstances were such that he reneged on his bargain, which he did, they could open up a temporary portal, powered by his own body, and find him. Which they've done." He leans over Bruce's shoulder for a sec, glancing at the screen. Without looking, he reaches back and hits a few keys in the empty air of his own projected keyboard. "And then Central Park happened, and now we're here."

Steve thinks about sacrificing vital pieces of yourself for power, the price people are willing to pay. He's familiar with the concept, of course, but his understanding was more—metaphorical. Before. "Never really understood the whole sell-your-soul deal," he says idly.

"Yeah, if you want to use an outdated, unscientific concept with lots of connotative baggage, that's the uneducated equivalent of my explanation," Tony says harshly, his gaze snapping hot over Steve's for the first time since Pepper stormed out. There's real anger in him, suddenly; he's not picking at someone to see how they tick, he's not teasing. He's just being a bully.

Steve hates bullies.

Bruce glances at Tony, his dark eyebrows knitting together over his glasses, but Steve just purses his lips and refuses to rise to the bait. "So how do we—un-graft it?" He asks evenly.

Tony shoots him a narrow glare. Steve meets it with interest.

"You know how it's possible to jam radio signals?" Bruce says, unobtrusively overtaking the conversation.

With effort, Steve switches from one set of brown eyes to another. Catches up with the question. "Yeah, we did that in—yes." It was part of the war effort, blocking enemy communications, but of course they'd know that. Steve doesn't wanna give Tony any more ammunition right now. _Nazis, your only frame of reference_ , he would say. _How could we forget._

"Right, well, it's a bit like that. We can't sever the connection," Bruce says, "so the solution is—somewhat inelegant. It basically amounts to giving Loki an arc reactor implant like Tony's, except instead of an electromagnet to keep shrapnel in place, it will power a scrambler to more or less cancel out the psychic signal."

Steve glances at Loki's still form thoughtfully. "It'll work?"

"It should," Bruce answers, the same time Tony's saying, "Of course it will."

They glance at each other, bemused, Tony sheepish and Bruce wry.

Steve looks at Loki again. Asks quietly, "You hearing this?"

Tony, startled, opens his mouth—but anything he was gonna say dies on his lips, 'cause Loki turns his head and looks at Steve with blank, glassy eyes.

"Yes," he says, blinking slowly. His voice sounds like it's been dragged over glass. "We have spoken about it at length." His eyes try to focus on Steve's face, fail. Try again. Eventually he gives up and stares dully at the ceiling.

Steve hesitates. "And Thor?"

Loki swallows carefully, his eyes slipping closed. It takes him long seconds. "He was proving difficult. To have underfoot."

"We kicked him out of the lab," Tony says, voice gone soft. He's drawn up near the couch, hands empty and restless. There's something shuttered about his expression as he looks Loki over. "He kept talking to the computers."

"It got a little hairy when he took their silence as a personal insult," Bruce adds mildly. "Also he broke one of my beakers."

Steve nods uneasily. It oughta be Loki who explains the specifics to his brother, but he might not be up to it. The conversation's not gonna be an easy one when the time comes. Which reminds Steve: "When's the procedure?"

"As soon as I'm done soldering this," Tony says, a jumble of angry lines all over again as he jerks bodily back toward his desk. "So if you could shut your mouth and let me concentrate?"

"Tony," Bruce says, staring at him, "why are you—"

"Agent Barton on the line," JARVIS says smoothly, just as Clint's face appears on one of the screens. He looks tired, but he's wearing a tiny, half-curled grin. "Dinner's here, guys."

"I thought you were cooking," Bruce says, meeting Clint's eyes on-screen. "I seem to recall a promise of homemade bruschetta."

"Not gonna sugar-coat it, big guy, we made the attempt." He shrugs a shoulder before adding, solemnly, "Though we have lost the battle, we hold out hope that we will one day win the war."

Bruce snorts. "We'll be down in a few minutes."

"I wait for no man," Clint says imperiously, cutting out.

"The appliances are StarkTech," Tony complains, exasperated. "Food practically cooks itself, how can they possibly screw up Italian. Every recipe ever is tomatoes, some kind of bread or pasta, and like the same three herbs."

Steve ignores Tony and gets to his feet, resting a hand on the back of Loki's sofa. "Can you—I mean, do you want me to bring something up for you?" He asks.

"I appreciate the offer, Captain," Loki says dryly, "but I doubt anything I consume would keep, given the condition of the organs required to do so."

"Right," Steve says, pained.

* * *

On the elevator down to the shared living area, Bruce and Tony talk enthusiastically about an arc-powered implant that could suppress unintentional Hulk transformations. It's not something Steve's really equipped to follow.

Bruce, distracted, doesn't slow down to explain it to Steve in plain English; and Tony—well. Tony doesn't even fucking look at Steve.

* * *

The communal floor's got a huge kitchen, living room, den, balcony—basically what Steve's got, except bigger and less private.

Surprisingly, the kitchen's spotless. Steve's not sure why he expected otherwise, all things considered. If his french toast was anything to go by, it's not like Clint can't cook.

"So we ordered pizza," Clint's saying, gesturing to the boxes stacked on the marble counters. There's seven. There's also plates and napkins set out. "Because I like pizza."

"Pizza," Tony starts, just this side of derisive.

"—sounds absolutely fantastic. I also like pizza," Bruce says firmly. Clint preens.

Thor's standing quietly to Steve's left. He looks a bit lost, like maybe he tried to help Clint cook and was promptly banished. Steve feels bad for him, knows what it's like to feel useless. Nothing to do, no one wanting you around.

He touches Thor's shoulder. "If you wanna spend some time alone with your brother, we'll probably be down here a while."

Thor meets his eyes with gratitude, with apprehension. With surprise and relief.

Briefly, just 'til it starts to ache, Steve wonders what it's like to love someone for thousands of years. To never make it clear, maybe, in a way they'd understand. To not know how to, even after so much time.

"I will do this," Thor says, thoughtfully considering the pizza boxes. Natasha and Bruce've started piling slices onto plates for everybody. "We shall together break our bread, that he may bolster his strength—"

"Well," Steve interrupts reluctantly. He explains about food and stomach wounds.

"How long must he remain in this state?" Thor asks, desperately unhappy. "He will tell me nothing."

"Not much longer," Steve assures awkwardly. "I think they've mostly got it figured out. But I don't know the specifics," he adds, 'cause Thor's eyes've sharpened speculatively.

"I see," he says at length. Then, formally: "I thank you." His hand falls on Steve's shoulder with feeling, about knocks the wind outta him. Then he leaves Steve's side to reach over Natasha and claim two pizza boxes, leaves the room to seek out Loki. Have a conversation, reach an understanding, find some common ground. Steve wishes him the best.

A few yards away, Tony and Bruce are still at the counter, Tony talking around a mouthful of cheese and hot sauce. He's drawing pictures on his plate with salt and grease while Bruce pens messy equations on a napkin, going on about arc reactors psychic links and metaphysical portals. Bruce, caught up in the math, doesn't notice Steve; Tony, 'cause he's still being a bastard, continues to openly ignore him.

Steve keeps his bitterness in check, glances over to where Clint's perched on the back of the couch in the living room. Natasha, who's wandered over to join him, wipes at a smear of oil on his cheek with her napkin. It's perfunctory, almost clinical, but Clint's eyes go soft as he watches her. Steve could go to them, he knows; they don't actively shut people out. But they're not his damn babysitters, and if they wanted an extraneous third party, they wouldn't've fallen into their silent, secret language. The one strung together with sleight-of-hand body movements and vague eye contact; the one where their country is their own, and everyone else is just a tourist.

Steve thinks about disconnect, about the story of Steve Rogers. About running alone in the early morning fog or afternoon storm, a world closed-off and false, where everything drops away into nothing if it's beyond his line of sight. Talking heads, Norse gods, magic and science. All over again, Steve feels like it's getting away from him: the difference between what's true and what's real.

A long time ago, Bucky used to drag Steve all over Brooklyn whenever he got it in his head Steve was lonely. He'd introduce him to the boys, try to get him to talk to a pretty girl now and then. At best it was troublesome, at worse disheartening; but it came from a place of love, so Steve went along with it. After all, it wasn't Bucky's fault no one wanted to waste their time with a small, sick kid who couldn't even throw a football, couldn't dance without getting stepped on.

It must've been exhausting, Steve thinks distantly. Being my only friend on the whole goddamned planet.

It was humiliating, too. Every time. But Steve went, Steve put up with strangers politely ignoring his existence for hours at a time. He did that.

It wasn't worse than now. These are people he knows, people he respects. It doesn't matter he's not a small, sick kid anymore—he's still got nothing. No one. Not even Bucky.

So Steve, an island in the twenty-first century 'cause that's just how the chips fell, methodically piles the equivalent of one-half a New York pizza onto a plate. Then he goes back to his room alone.

He asks JARVIS not to take any calls. And to remove Tony from the access list.

* * *

There's a book called _From Here to Eternity_ that takes place a few years before Steve went into the ice, though it was written five or six years after. It's set in Hawai'i. He finds it on a shelf in his library, picks it up 'cause it's something solid he can hold in his hands.

"Captain Rogers," JARVIS interrupts later, "your presence is required in Doctor Banner's laboratory."

"No thanks," Steve replies, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of crust. It's stuffed with cheese. It's a nice, new thing about the twenty-first century, like eating Mexican food with a friend he made all on his own.

Steve figures he should've taken Wade up on his offer for ice cream. Would've been better than eating up here alone.

"I have redirected all incoming calls to your voice message system. At your request," JARVIS says firmly, the disapproval in his voice making Steve glance up in surprise. "But as circumstances have triggered my automatic critical override codes, I feel I must immediately inform you of an emergency situation—"

Steve sets his book aside, sitting straighter. " _What_?"

"You have an incoming call from Doctor Banner's—"

"Put it through," Steve orders, going cold. I've made a mistake, he thinks wildly. It's only been an hour, what could I miss in an _hour_.

Clint's face appears, bright and clear, on the library coffee table. Sweat trails from his temple and his eyes are harder than Steve's seen 'em in weeks. "What the hell, man," Clint barks at him. "Why aren't you down here yet?"

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'? Didn't you get any of my messages? Or Nat's?" There's a heavy sound from Clint's end, a muted crash Steve hardly hears. But Clint grits his teeth, his eyes cutting off-screen for a few bare seconds before meeting Steve's again.

Steve's on his feet in an instant. "What's going on?"

"Jesus shit. Okay, okay—long story short." Clint blows out a breath. "Bruce hulked, Tony's unconscious, 'Tasha's having a panic attack and Loki's losing more blood than the dude I blew up today."

Steve stares at him.

"So get the fuck _down here_. Barton out."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bruce is quiet for a few long minutes. Then he looks at Steve, stiff and old beyond his years, face creased with misery and anger and disappointment. "I'm going to make sure I didn't give Tony any lasting brain damage, but after that I need to—not be around him. For awhile." He swallows thickly and looks at Thor. "I—didn't actually kill Loki this time, did I?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, as always! Um--next chapter is the epilogue, and it will probably be a bit late, too. I have to work on getting prints ready to go for Detroit Fanfare. (I'll have a table in Artist Alley, so if you're in the area, stop by and say hello!).
> 
> I will try to update within my usual month/month-and-a-half range, but fair warning, it is entirely possible I will not. Sorry, sorry.

More than anything, it's the sight of Natasha losing her head in a crisis that's sobering to the point of despair. She's tucked back between the wall and a bank of counters, her shoulders hunched in and her face pressed between her knees. Clint's several steps away from her, close enough to offer the comfort of his presence but still give her some breathing room.

For one wild moment, Steve's mind shifts and refocuses: Natasha's got teeth; claws long and sharp; all the killer grace of a career predator. But Clint's worked with animals his whole life, and Steve finally understands how they work. Fierce, wounded, lonely—Clint knows how to approach them, when to offer his hand. When not to.

Steve drags his eyes away, takes in the mess of Bruce's lab as chill terror creeps anxiously up his spine. He's a soldier; he's walked into plenty of hairy situations in his life. But this—it's an emergency come outta left field, an ultimatum they've prepared for, but one Steve honestly didn't expect. And, 'cause of Steve, it's worse than it has to be. 'Cause he should've been here sooner.

There's a glittering trail of glass strewn with the remains of Loki's sofa, feathery clumps of fabric and stuffing, wood framework broke apart like the bones of birds. On the other side of it, Thor's staring helplessly through the sealed door of the containment chamber. He's got his hammer in hand, fine tremors undermining the strength of his grip.

Loki's nowhere to be found. _Tony_ 's nowhere to be found. Steve gets caught in the middle distance between panicking and pretending not to.

"Wait," Clint says sharply, suddenly at his side with a hand on his arm, and Steve's surprised to realize he's started moving. He shakes Clint off, though, keeps going, stalks toward one of the chamber's floor-to-ceiling windows so he can get a good look inside. Thor shifts outta the way, makes some space for him.

Howling and thrashing, a blur of greengrass muscle slamming into every solid surface, the Hulk's doing his damndest to break free. It's a terrifying show of force, but the structure holds.

...Then the Hulk shifts, just when Steve notices the slick slide of red across the floor, and he _sees_.

 _"No_ ," Steve shouts, slamming a fist against the reinforced polymer.

Washed-out under the sterile lighting of the small room, tiny and crumpled before the heaving mass of a furious nightmare: Loki. He's very, very still. He's got Tony, unconscious, in his arms. They're both covered in blood.

The Hulk makes a lunge in their direction, he's practically right on top of 'em and Steve's heart stutters in his chest—but Loki vanishes. Reappears at the Hulk's back, his blind spot, far away as the limited space allows. Thor's brother doesn't move, doesn't blink; Steve can't even tell if he's breathing, and there's more blood on the floor than Steve ever thought a body could hold. But he's got his arms tight around Tony's chest.

"There's a failsafe," Clint says, his voice tight but resigned to the inevitable. "No one gets in or out until Bruce is back with us."

Steve stares at him. "Can't Loki—teleport them through the walls?"

"My brother is gravely wounded," Thor says, serious as death. "If he has not, it is because he cannot." For the life of him, Steve can't figure out why the guy's not slamming through the doors, the window, _anything_ —but then he glances down. Thor's knuckles are a mangled mess, swollen like he's cracked some of the bones. His body's sharp with tension, compounded frustration and fear.

"Stark has override authority," Natasha says, her voice small. She hasn't yet unfolded herself from her corner.

"Stark's clocked out," Clint says bluntly. "There's no other way to open this fucking door. We've tried, Steve." There's an apology bit off, right there at the end. Steve ignores it, 'cause if he doesn't, he's lost.

"My programming is very specific," JARVIS says, speech stilted and stange. "I have redirected every resource toward locating a possible redundancy in the code, but Mister Stark took great pains to ensure that the system could not be compromised." There's a pause that sounds almost mechanical. "He did not foresee being trapped inside with Doctor Banner, I am sure."

Another crash doesn't quite shake the floor as the Hulk bursts against the far wall, furious to escape and destroy. Then he rolls his enormous fists down through the air in a perfect, violent arc—right over Tony and Loki.

A collective gasp, maybe from Thor and Steve, maybe from everyone; but the strike passes through the open air.

Edged up near the window now, just beside the reinforced entryway, Loki's got blood trickling from his mouth. His eyes've fallen to half-mast, cloudy and unfocused. Tony's still cradled close, but Loki's hands are loose and weak on his back.

They're not gonna make it, Steve thinks distantly, hysteria rising in him like white noise.

 _Then how did you get in_ , Pepper's voice reminds him. It trickles through the hot panic of his thoughts like a cool ribbon of water.

So Steve says, thoughtless and desperate: "JARVIS, open the door. But only long enough for us to pull 'em out."

Natasha breathes in sharply, and Clint makes a small, hard sound in the back of his throat. Thor simply looks up, waiting, and doesn't say a word.

And JARVIS says, with a clear note of relief: "System override, Captain Rogers seven-four-twenty-seventeen." The door slides open.

"What the _fuck_ ," Clint snaps, already fingering his bow, already loosing a detonating arrow into the Hulk's face.

The Hulk roars wildly, blinded and enraged, and just distracted enough that Thor and Steve can manhandle Loki and Tony outta the chamber.

The door slides shut before the other guy recovers, and Steve settles Tony gently on top of a stainless steel counter. The act reminds him of the bodies he's carried in his time, dead weight, boneless and absent. His arms tighten once around Tony's shoulders before letting go.

Thor's got Loki laid out on the medical table that was prepped for his procedure. He pushes a hand over his brother's bare torso through the peeling bandages, and Steve realizes with a sick start that the steady song of a leaky faucet's not a faucet at all. It's Loki's blood, pooling around him in an ever-spreading circle, slipping over the lip of the table to burst against the floor.

Loki blinks slowly, ashen-faced, and meets Thor's eyes with difficulty. He says something too quiet to make out, manages the shape of the words but not the breath to give them form. Thor leans down and speaks soft, meaningless reassurances against his ear.

Tony's out cold in front of Steve, half his face spotted with red and already darkening to true, bruised purple. Steve runs his fingers over the bones of cheek and jaw and temple, terrified; but there's nothing broken or shifting under the skin, and far as he can tell, it must've been a glancing blow.

"How did this happen," Steve asks tightly, watching Tony's chest rise and fall with each slow, deep breath.

"Bruce and Tony were talking shop," Clint says, coming up on his left. He's got a first aid kit, and he immediately starts checking Tony over with clinical efficiency. "Maybe a half hour after you left. Then they started arguing. I didn't realize it was about Pepper until Bruce stormed out."

Steve turns on him sharply. " _What_?" The thought of what it could've been rises in his chest like bile, screams and bellows and claws at his insides like the monster a dozen yards away from them, 'cause someday Tony's mouth is gonna get him _killed_.

Natasha's trying to get to her feet, to force herself up outta sheer will even as she darts furtive looks at the containment chamber. There's another muted crash from inside. When Clint offers his hand, she takes it.

"Stark followed him to the lab," she says. Her lips are pale, but her voice doesn't shake at all. "Wouldn't let it go. You know how he gets."

You idiot, Steve thinks angrily. He can see it in his mind's eye: Bruce furious over the breakdown of his made family, furious with Tony, wanting to be alone to calm down. Tony pushing and pushing and _pushing_ 'til he gets a goddamn reaction. He's irreverent and caustic and careless, and people don't put up with that forever.

But then Steve realizes this would've been the third time today someone Tony cares about walked out on him. He understands Tony's desperation in a carefully fitted moment of empathy, like a lock clicking open; a seamless mechanism. Bleakly, Steve wonders if Tony's some kinda glutton for punishment. It'd explain a lot.

"That's about when we called you," Clint says. He doesn't sound accusing, but Steve feels guilty all the same.

"I feared their quarrel would come to blows," Thor says heavily. "I left Loki's side to intervene." He touches his brother's cheek. In a crooked moment of symmetry, the mess of his knuckles matches the red streaks on Loki's chin, the ragged gore of his belly.

It's how they spill their blood, Steve thinks sadly, not how it fits in their veins. That's the true family resemblance.

"But our Bruce had begun the transformation. I attempted to restrain him, that Tony should bear my brother to safety. I—did not succeed." Thor bows his head, shame and guilt twisting the grief on his face. He's bruised too, an awkward half-moon of darkness heavy around his left eye. He cradles the empty house of Loki's body, stares down at him like there's still someone inside.

"By the time we caught up with them, Tony was unconscious and the system was locked down. They were both trapped inside with the Hulk," Clint says, hard lines on his forehead. "Loki shouldn't have been _walking_ , let alone using short-range teleportation. Multi-system failure doesn't even begin to cover it. He's so fucked."

"Thor," Steve says gently.

"Attend to your shield brother," Thor whispers, voice hoarse and gravelly and lost. "I will attend my own, and dress his wounds as best I can." He starts peeling the ragged bandages from Loki's chest.

Natasha, pushing her sleeves up, joins him. "Tony was talking about synthesizing Asgardian DNA. If he'd ever gotten around to it, we could have attempted a blood transfusion. I guess that doesn't really help us right now, though." Gently, she brushes a sticky strand of hair outta Loki's face.

"Tasha," Clint murmurs.

"It's fine," she says, voice clipped, but Steve hears her for what she really means: I'm okay. There's no trace of her previous terror now that she can put herself to use.

While she explains to Thor what a blood transfusion is, Clint snags an ice pack from the refrigerator and gently presses it to Tony's eye. "You might wanna keep your phone on you, going forward," he mentions to Steve. "And maybe it's not a great idea to have JARVIS reroute your calls to voicemail."

"JARVIS wasn't happy about that either," Steve says, ducking his head. "He made that clear."

"He would've known you had the override." Clint sounds exhausted, and for the first time Steve notices a thin cut just under his jaw. It stretches from his earlobe to the point of his chin. "He just wasn't authorized to tell anyone."

"Hard-coded security," Steve sighs, shaking his head. "Right. Jesus."

"So you would collect my blood," Thor's saying, a little ways away from them, "and he would take it into his body and be healed?"

"No," Natasha says patiently, her hands working over the bandages. She tears off a strip of medical tape. "It could keep him from dying, though. But you usually need to have the same kind of blood."

"This is vexing," Thor rumbles, his lips in a tight line.

Natasha opens her mouth to say something else, but then she pauses and tilts her head. "I'm sorry," she says.

Thor's brow wrinkles in confusion. But then he realizes, right about when Steve does, that she's talking to Bruce.

The containment chamber's quietly opened on it own. He comes to them naked and rumpled, fingers knotted together and shoulders hunched in.

Natasha goes to him and passes over his glasses. The warmth at Steve's side dissipates as Clint leaves to get him a pair of pants.

"I can't think of a single reason," Bruce murmurs softly, "why you would be apologizing to me, Natasha."

"I shouldn't be afraid," she says firmly, her face expressionless and cold in that perfect way that means she's baring everything. 'Cause she's not putting on an act; 'cause she's herself. Vulnerable with blood on her hands and arms from Loki's injuries.

"Then I shouldn't scare you." Clint returns, and Bruce tugs the slacks up over his hips without a trace of shyness. They're dark gray. Then his eyes fall on Tony, and go wide. "What did I—"

"He's just knocked out," Clint says, "far as I can tell. Loki's not doing so hot, though."

Bruce is quiet for a few long minutes. Then he looks at Steve, stiff and old beyond his years, face creased with misery and anger and disappointment. "I'm going to make sure I didn't give Tony any lasting brain damage, but after that I need to—not be around him. For awhile." He swallows thickly and looks at Thor. "I—didn't actually kill Loki this time, did I?"

"No," Thor says. His voice is very, very quiet.

Bruce takes a deep, steadying breath and rakes a hand through his hair. Then he says, "I'll do what I can. After that, I'm going to find Pepper."

Says, "Because this entire situation is fucking unacceptable."

* * *

Bruce and Natasha patch Loki up just like before, moving in careful tandem while Clint hangs off to the side and adjusts the fine bones in Thor's hands. His movements are fluid and sure, like he's done this kinda thing any number of times in his life.

There's nothing for Steve to do to help, so he simply watches. Thick, colorless fluid oozes through the IV in Loki's arm; Natasha's efficient hands double-check stitches and vitals; Clint wraps Thor's knuckles in sturdy bandages, reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. No one says anything beyond basic instruction. After Loki's as stable as a guy on his deathbed can get, Bruce leaves.

Natasha washes her hands up to her elbows and sets up camp in Bruce's living room, on the long wraparound couch, to keep watch over Tony. Thor stays at Loki's side in the lab, staring dully into his slack face.

"Ice," Steve says, handing a pack to Thor to hold over his hands. "For the swelling." Thor goes through the motions, but otherwise it's like Steve's not even in the room.

But then he says, "I am lost. I have failed him."

"You haven't," Steve tells him. "To him, he's the one who disappointed you."

Thor shakes his head. "He could never."

Funny thing: Steve really believes him.

On his way out, Natasha snags his wrist as he passes by. He links their fingers, squeezes her hand, but he doesn't stay. Like Bruce, he doesn't really wanna be around when Tony wakes up.

She doesn't say a word, just nods briefly as Steve turns to go. Distantly, Steve realizes he loves her. Loves all of them. And if it weren't for him, most of this could've been avoided.

* * *

Back on his own floor, in his own space, Steve takes _From Here to Eternity_ out to the hot tub by his pool and strips down to his skin, rests his muscles for a good twenty minutes. It helps the ache, but he's still gonna be sore in the morning. He shouldn't've run for so long. He should've brought a map, or his phone.

After, Steve swims a few laps in the pool. Takes a shower. Browses through the video collection before settling on a couple documentaries. The first one's about the anglerfish, which Steve finds frankly horrifying; the second's on Clydesdale horses, dry but informative, and easier to watch than the mating habits of anglerfish.

"Miss Romanov incoming, Captain," JARVIS says, much later.

"Bruce called," Natasha informs him, her face coming up on the coffee table. Steve wonders if he'll ever get used to having people beneath his food and books and heels. Figures he probably oughta stop propping up his feet on the furniture. "He found Pepper. She's had a lot to drink. He doesn't feel comfortable leaving her by herself, so they're going back to the mansion for the night. "

"She okay?"

"Probably not. But she'll handle it like everything else." Then, probably 'cause she knows Steve doesn't wanna ask, but wants to know, "Tony's awake. Complaining about the cartoon Thor's watching, so he'll probably be right as rain in a few days."

"And Loki?"

"Sleeping. Breathing." She glances off-screen, backlit by a lightsource Steve can't pick out. The glow catches her in profile for one fragmented instant. Then she looks back. "Thor says that's enough."

"What about you, Natasha?" Steve asks. He's not sure if he's allowed to, if it's something she'll talk about. Weakness—well, it's not something he's ever associated with Black Widow.

"Fine," she says, voice clipped. "I apologize for my performance."

"Not what I meant," Steve says.

Natasha's quiet for a long moment, her pale eyes speculative. Then, careful about every word, she says, "I am a very capable person. I'm very strong and fast. I can manipulate a politician, a criminal, an alien god—but I can't—," she pauses. Closes her mouth. Opens it again. "I am not capable of damaging the Hulk. I can't stop him. I can't talk to him or trick him to keep him from hurting me. All I can do is run and wait for the dust to settle." She tilts her head up, a man staring down a firing squad. "His very existence disarms me."

Steve's mouth goes dry. "They're working on something for that. Tony and Bruce. So he won't have any more—unwilling transformations."

"Now?" She asks softly. "When they can't even be in the same room together?"

"Especially now," Steve says firmly.

Natasha nods thoughtfully. "Tony's asking about you."

"Let me know if anything else comes up," Steve says. He ends the call.

The rest of the evening's relatively silent. At one point, a light rain starts to fall.

"Would you like me to activate the soundproofing substrate, Captain?"

"I don't mind it," Steve says. It crowds down around him like white noise.

He reads a few more pages of _Eternity_ , gets restless, gets up. Wanders around a space with everything he could want or need, listless and trapped. It's too big for him; it's claustrophobic. He needs someone to talk to, he wants to be alone.

He—really needs to do something with his hands.

In the room with his art supplies, Steve finds sheaves of paper he's sure he didn't purchase. The stock is thick, high-quality, archival and acid-free. It was clearly expensive, and there's a full range of colors and textures—creams and eggshells and bright whites, heavier tooths that soak up charcoal and smooth, cool finishes ideal for inks and markers. There's also a new set of pencils in a plastic-wrapped box, right under the ones he's currently using.

Steve rubs the pads of his fingers over his palms, cracks his wrists. He wonders how long they've been here, if they're some kinda apology or just an afterthought from the move Steve overlooked. Tony's thoughtful, thoughtless, appalling and frustrating and endearing; Steve's got no idea how to navigate ground that's always changing beneath his feet. He's still so angry at Tony for Pepper, for being an asshole all damn day, for almost getting himself _killed_ by Bruce 'cause of his damn mouth—but right along with the anger, he still misses Tony like a limb, like air. Like his recent, unreachable past.

So Steve draws. JARVIS adjusts the lights without being asked, and even if nothing worth sharing comes of it, the process settles him. The heavy black strokes sweep long and easy, sink into the linen paper like melting butter over toast. It's cathartic, calming; it's exactly what he needs.

* * *

Steve wasn't dreaming, not really, but coming awake all at once jars him. There's a weight settling onto his bed, the soft sound of skin against his sheets, and the familiar smell of Tony's soap. His hair's damp when he presses his face into Steve's neck, his hands cool over Steve's belly and back as he burrows in close. About when his thighs slide hot against Steve's own, the knowledge comes in a slow wave that Tony's not wearing anything.

"Mind telling me," Tony mutters irritably, placing soft, dry kisses on Steve's jaw, nosing his hairline and breathing in deep, "why I had to hack my own AI to get into my boyfriend's bedroom?"

"That really what you're gonna lead with?" Steve tries to sit up, blinking against the familiar glow of the arc reactor, but Tony's arms firm up like steel bands and hold him in place. His tongue slips out, sketches illegible symbols just behind Steve's ear.

"If I apologize right off the bat," Tony explains patiently, one hand creeping down around Steve's hips and slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, "It might remind you of what an unrepentant doucheconoe I was today, and how you can't stand the sight of me. And then I don't get to sleep here." His teeth scrape lightly over Steve's jugular, dry and warm, leaving tiny sparks in their wake.

It's all Steve can do to swallow back a moan, to keep his hands firmly at his sides. "That so."

"I'm fine, by the way," Tony mentions, sucking a soft bruise into his chest even as he slides Steve's pants the rest of the way off. "Thanks for asking."

Steve's throat works around the soft sounds that try to slip out, but then Tony's hand curls around his cock and a sharp gasp escapes.

"There we go," Tony says, a picture of satisfaction. Then he leans down and sucks the tip into his mouth.

Steve's just sinking his fingers into Tony's thick, dark hair when Tony's jaw stiffens.

"Stop," Steve orders, pulling him up with an arm around his back and reaching over to fumble for the bedside lamp.

Tony sighs and says, "JARVIS, lights. Twenty percent?"

"Certainly, Sir," JARVIS replies. Steve'd be hard to pressed to find anyone else who could fit so much disapproval into two short words.

"Oh, come on," Tony complains as the lights come up, "does _no one_ in this house still like me?"

"I have no idea," JARVIS says primly, "to what you are referring. Sir."

"Holy cow, Tony," Steve sighs. The bruising on Tony's face darkens his cheek and temple, smears black across the line of his jaw and deep, unsettling red near his nose. Steve reaches out and curves his fingers around Tony's head, thumbs the swollen flesh as gently as he knows how.

Tony slides his palm over Steve's knuckles and turns his eyes away. "Yeah, well. Common consensus is I deserved this."

"No," Steve says, sitting back against the headboard. "Just 'cause you screwed up doesn't mean you deserve to get beat to a pulp." He pulls Tony into his lap, rests his head against Tony's chest. It's good—the the tight curl of their bodies, the smooth surface of the arc reactor against his cheek; the blue glow on the other side of his closed eyes, and Tony's warm hands sliding up and down his back. They've gotten a lot wrong up 'til now, but if there's another place on this planet that feels as much like _home_ as the circle of Tony's arms, Steve's never found it.

Tony shifts and kisses the top of his head. They're both only half-hard, but the agonizing moment of friction at the slow roll of Tony's hips might change that pretty quick. "You were worried," he murmurs, soft and surprised. "I didn't think—"

"You never think," Steve tells him irritably. "Look. About earlier."

Tony's hands, which've been sliding thoughtfully low over Steve's spine, pause. "Okay, I just—"

"No. Listen." Steve braces his hands on Tony's waist, but gets some space between their bodies so he can think. "We had an affair, Tony. You said you were gonna leave Pepper. You didn't."

Tony rests a hand inside one of Steve's elbows, curls his feet unhappily into the Iron Man sheets and picks at the fabric with his toes. "No," he allows.

"It was a mistake—"

"Jeez, Cap, tell me how you really feel," Tony snorts, his body tight and anxious despite his dry tone. But there's no underscore of cruelty to his words, no reflexive nastiness as an act of self-defense. He simply looks resigned.

Steve shakes his head, exasperated. "Not us," he says firmly. "I don't—regret this. You and me. I can't." Then he narrows his eyes. "But you should've been honest with me up front. And we should've waited."

Tony looks at him for a long time, forehead folded in on itself like he's working through something complicated, mathematical, outta Steve's league. Finally he says, "Point taken."

"It wasn't right, waiting 'til Pepper found out on her own. Wasn't fair."

Tony looks away. "I know. She deserved better."

"You oughta tell her that," Steve says sharply. "You should've told her that before you broke her heart, Tony. Even the way you treated me today, like you—like you don't," he pauses. Like you don't love me, he can't quite manage.

It's something Steve doesn't know for sure, 'cause it's something Tony's never said. Steve's learned first-hand how hope can kill a man, but uncertainty will cut your legs right out from under you when you're still miles from home.

Tony turns his head, waiting. Slides one of his hands down between their bodies and curls his fingers around both their dicks. "Like I don't what?"

Steve closes his eyes, memorizing the feel of Tony's callouses; the perfect weight of his body; the warmth of his breath. "Don't worry about it. But you've gotta stop being a jerk, Tony."

"I'm getting better." He gives an experimental squeeze.

Steve's breath hitches. "From when we first met, yeah."

Tony frowns, then winces. Steve leans in and cups his face with gentle fingers. "Careful."

Tony lowers his eyes, leans in so their foreheads are touching. Works his hand, smearing precome over their flushed skin, and Steve wishes it could be as simple as this: the easy intimacy of close contact, Tony's thighs over his hips, the devilish skill of his fingers and the slow rock of his body.

Steve licks his hand, long and wet and slick, and joins it to Tony's. JARVIS dims the lights. It's a long time before they speak again.

"What if I've lost her, Steve," he asks later, flush and sticky and sated.

"You haven't," Steve says, remembering. _Pepper's a sure thing_. "It'll be hard for a while, but." _She'll never not be in the picture_.

He pulls off his t-shirt and uses it to wipe them down, careful not to move too much, then resettles the blankets around them. Tony angles in, his pulse thrumming in line with Steve's body at wrist and groin and throat. There's the rush of blood in Tony's belly, hot and steady; the beat of his heart, muted, beneath a delicate tracery of metal and glass.

"Don't let me this fuck up anymore," Tony whispers, reaching for his hand. "Please. Don't let me fuck up, and don't—leave me."

Steve moves over him in the semi-darkness, meets the molten flash of Tony's dark eyes even as Tony tries to look away. "Don't see how I could," Steve says quietly, "since I haven't yet."

Tony exhales, long and harsh, and murmurs something that gets lost in the press of their mouths. Steve braces his weight on his arms and leans back, looks down at Tony spread out beneath him. The bruises are ugly and dark; his eyes are wet; he looks so relieved he could cry. Steve kisses the fine lines of his face, traces the salt of Tony's lashes with his tongue. "Stop," he says gently.

"But I—"

"Not if it hurts you," Steve says, touching his thumb Tony's lower lip. Tony opens for him, pulls it into his mouth.

"I've had worse."

Steve palms Tony's neck, his shoulders, his chest. Skates his fingertips over Tony's ribs and trails butterfly-soft kisses along the uninjured half of his jaw. Tony moans low in his throat, arches up like nothing on earth's ever been as good to him as Steve's hands.

"Get some rest," Steve finally says, moving to his own side of the bed and stretching out on his back. "JARVIS, can you please disable the alarm clock?"

"Certainly, Captain Rogers," JARVIS replies promptly.

"I can't believe you seduced my AI with your forties charm. How can your charisma possibly supercede my own."

"So program him to like you better." When Tony inches a hand down over Steve's belly, Steve grabs it, pulls it up, kisses the knuckles.

"That's cheating," Tony mumbles. "Anyway, I can't. The whole point of the project was to create a functional intelligence that developed a personality all on its own. I can't just change him. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually a monster."

"For which we are ever grateful," JARVIS mentions.

Steve laughs, and Tony relaxes against him. After a while, 'cause Steve's still got his hand, Tony links their fingers together and asks, tentatively, "We're really doing this. Right?"

Steve drops a kiss in his hair. "Going to sleep?"

"Dating," Tony says earnestly. He shifts a bit, messes up the covers so he can get a good look at Steve's face. "You and me. You'll—consent to being my boyfriend or whatever, and this—us—will be a thing. A long-term thing?"

Steve presses his lips together thoughtfully.

"You're killing me here, Cap."

"Long-term," Steve says, watching Tony's face. "As in—"

"What, you wanna put time limit on it?" Tony pinches Steve with his toes. "Sure, you'll get tired of me eventually, everyone does, it's not news that I'm a low-doses kind of guy—"

"Not saying th—"

"Look," Tony says hastily, "I know you don't—love—me, but. I thought maybe we could work up to it."

Steve stares at him.

Tony grimaces. "If we can't, it's—I mean, if. If you meet someone else after a while, I'd. Y'know, get over it. Eventually. But for now—"

"You think I don't—," Steve begins, baffled, but then he catches up with the rest of what Tony's saying. "You think I'd settle for a relationship of _convenience_?"

"What else would we be doing?" Tony asks bluntly.

Steve grits his teeth around the tight knot at the back of his throat. What else, indeed. For a minute there, he almost thought—

"Um," Tony says cautiously. He's staring at Steve's knuckles, bleached white from gripping the sheets. Then he looks up at Steve's face.

What else, Steve thinks again, furious. He shifts his body away from Tony's. "You need to go."

Tony doesn't move.

Steve says, "Please."

Tony's quiet for a long handful of moments, watching Steve with that sharp, contemplative gaze again while time slips between them like water. Like seven decades of ice. Then he says, "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

Says, "I'm in love with you."

Steve opens his mouth. Steve closes his mouth.

"It's entirely possible," Tony continues slowly, "what with all the, the declarations about Pepper, that I never got around to actually saying it. Out loud. To you."

"No," Steve says. "You didn't."

Tony looks pained. "To be fair, I told you I was leaving her for you."

"All that tells me," Steve says steadily, "is you're the kinda guy to jump ship soon as someone else catches your interest."

"If you really thought I was leaving my _perfect girlfriend_ for an FWB—"

"I don't know what that is," Steve mentions.

"I asked you to be my boyfriend! I told you I wanted to marry you," Tony says, incredulous.

"You say a lotta things, Tony."

Tony starfishes out in the bed and exhales loudly, long-suffering and put-upon. He turns his face into the pillow, frustrated. Then he sits up on his elbows. "Wait. You—you assumed I was using you for sex and you _still_ gave me your _butt virginity_?"

"You didn't seem to mind the first time."

"The first—oh my god. _Steve_." Tony buries his face in his hands. Then he yelps and gingerly pulls his palms away.

Steve shakes his head and leans in to kiss the mess of dark, swollen tissue around Tony's eye. It's not something he can help, and he's not quite able to stop. "Don't hurt yourself any worse, dummy."

"DUM-E is one of my friends that I built," Tony complains imperiously. "If we're doing the pet-name thing, I have a good track record with 'asshole' or 'jerk'."

Steve huffs a laugh against Tony's ear. "But not, say, babydoll?"

Tony looks thoughtful. "I don't think I mind that too much."

"Good," Steve says against Tony's cheek, his jaw. "Now go to bed."

"Wait. So." Tony shifts a bit, slides their limbs together 'til Steve's trapped. "You've—never been with anyone else?"

"No," Steve says.

"Oh. How, uh. How do you feel about that?" Tony's not looking at him, but his tone's carefully even.

"Fine," Steve answers honestly. "I don't wanna be with anyone else."

A line of tension melts outta Tony's shoulders, even as his heart rate picks up. Steve can almost taste the rhythm against his tongue. "Okay. Okay. So—are you my boyfriend or not? D'you—you know."

Steve tilts his head, palming Tony's shoulder. "Do I what?"

Tony shoots him a narrow glare packaged in a neat frown. "Your wholesome Captain America facade is only a mask for your nefarious evi."

"Right," Steve says. "Good night."

"You're really making me ask? This is an awful way to start a relationship."

"I can think of worse," Steve says seriously.

Tony grimaces. "Low blow." Then he wriggles closer, antsy and impatient. It's kinda sweet. "Well? Do you or don't you?"

Steve rolls his eyes, but carefully gathers Tony against his chest. "I do," he says. Something shivers through Tony's body. Steve's arms tighten around him. "'Course I do."

"And you'll be my boyfriend," Tony says flatly.

"Yeah, Tony," Steve sighs, exasperated and fond. "I'll be your boyfriend."

Tony hides his warm face in Steve's neck, for once mindful of the bruises. "You're my boyfriend and you love me. Was that so fucking hard?"

* * *

Steve's alone when he wakes up. Tony makes himself scarce the next day, and most of the next week—he holes up in Bruce's lab, monitoring Loki's vitals alongside Bruce himself. Steve's not sure if they've had words or not, but they look busy whenever he stops by.

He checks in with JARVIS to see if they're actually eating the food he brings down, but other than that, he gives Tony plenty of space. Steve's not sure what it means, dating him—how they're allowed to act around each other when they're not alone, who they're telling. If they oughta wait 'til things settle down before making any grand declarations.

He doesn't ask anyone about Pepper, but Natasha lets slip she's flown back to Malibu.

At one point, Fury calls in to see if Clint's available to help neutralize a hostage situation with minors. Once he's sure it's a nonlethal operation, and that Clint himself consents, he allows it.

Thor doesn't leave Loki's side. Sometimes Loki wakes up, but mostly he doesn't.

This time around, Steve's not lonely so much as waiting for the other foot to drop. He doesn't feel left out or isolated; he knows it's temporary, and does his best to make himself useful in the meantime.

And, though he never actually finds Tony in bed with him, some days he wakes up to still-warm sheets.

* * *

The next Monday, a hard-faced mutant with stiff brown hair meets Steve in front of Professor Xavier's office. He's got the build and the temperament of a bodyguard and stands like he's been a fighter his whole life. "Personal business," he says when Steve asks, shrugging one shoulder. "He'll be out in a minute or two. Doesn't usually run this long."

"Steve," Steve says, offering his hand.

"I know," the man says. Steve thinks he might not take it; wouldn't be the first time someone's written him off. But in the end he does, and even with all that dense muscle knotted over his arms, Steve's still surprised by the strength of his grip. "Logan."

They stand in silence for awhile, Logan with his arms crossed just outside the office door, Steve a little ways away with his hands in his pockets. There's some neat artwork on the walls, and he looks it over with interest.

When the door opens about ten minutes later, Logan's stepped aside with a bitter twist to his mouth. The sunlight pours out into the hall, tracing the outline of a very tall man and flashing off the top of his head.

It's Magneto. Steve takes a breath.

He doesn't look at either of them as he passes by, the sharp lines of his chin angled with the smooth surface and vicious points of his helmet. His shoulders form a perfect square, his steps a solid rhythm. Steve's never seen someone so regal.

But then he steps outta sight of the professor's office, and the moment passes. He's just another tired old man. And then he's gone.

"Logan," a new voice says, and suddenly there's a small asian girl with her hand at Logan's elbow. Steve hadn't even heard her come up. "You promised me two hours with the sword." She's got some kinda accent, whatever country she's from, but she doesn't hesitate over her words at all.

Logan huffs. "I was drunk. My swords are built-in, why do I need to practice with a real one?"

"You were not drunk," the girl says disdainfully. "You can't get drunk."

"The last thing I need's a kid lecturing me on booze," he growls, but reluctantly follows her out. Steve watches them go, bemused.

"How old do you think Mariko is?" The girl snaps thickly, her voice fading out as they turn a corner. "We are the same age!"

Steve shakes his head and goes into the office.

"It's good to see you, Steven," Charles says. He's sitting behind his desk with his hands folded. There are two glass tumblers nearby, both empty, and a thick stack of paperwork. "I apologize for the delay."

"It's fine," Steve says, trying to look Charles over without being obvious about it. He lifts a shoulder in the direction of the hall. "How'd that go?"

"Quite well, all things considered," Charles says. He doesn't look too much worse for wear. He's even smiling. "I believe our immediate concerns may be dispelled for the time being."

"Good," Steve says, taking a seat.

"That said," Charles continues, his eyes bright and direct. "How are _your_ concerns at present?"

Steve doesn't mean to go into it—not all of it, anyway, not really—but what happens is, he starts at the beginning. 'Cause you gotta start somewhere. And then he can't stop.

* * *

He doesn't leave anything out. There's Tony on the helicarrier, Steve figuring him out by degrees; there's Steve's first time, bathed in the ghostlight of an arc reactor reflecting off steel, utilitarian walls. Breakfast at an outdoor cafe followed by a month of radio silence.

He talks about Natasha visiting his apartment and Bruce's anxious hands on the centrifuge, Clint breaking him into the zoo with two bright eyes. Pepper. Dinner with Tony, Loki breaking down in Central Park, Thor's impossible faith in his little brother.

Steve knows he's talking, but he gets the sense that Charles is looking through a photobook, sometimes; that the images come out in a fluid rush along with the words. It's more than he ever thought he'd feel comfortable giving away, but the lightness he feels afterward is almost unbearable.

"I'm sorry," he says, realizing a couple hours've passed. "Didn't mean to take so long."

"It is perfectly all right, Steven," Charles assures, warm and present. Steve's struck with a sense of inertia. It's as though Charles is a black hole, or a whirlpool: an inexorable vacuum that draws everything outta you 'til there's nothing left to weigh you down. Steve doesn't deserve the fondness he finds in Charles's eyes.

He'd accept judgement or disappointment, but they're not on offer. "I'm sorry," Steve blurts out.

Charles leans forward, raising his eyebrows curiously. "Whatever for? You came awake in absolute isolation, helped to save a world that had become utterly unfamiliar to you, and managed to forge meaningful relationships with each of your teammates."

"I didn't," Steve says, shaking his head. "They did. They—wouldn't leave me alone."

Charles studies him for a long moment. Then he asks, "And what do you think it says about you, that others should actively choose to pursue your friendship?"

"Fury—," Steve begins uncertainly.

"Had nothing to do with Clint Barton cooking french toast for you, or Natasha Romanov sitting for a portrait." Charles's lips thin out, and his expression hardens slightly. "He certainly had nothing to do with Tony Stark falling in love with you."

Steve turns his head, ashamed.

"I will tell you, Steven," Charles says firmly, reaching across the desk to take Steve's hand. "You can feel guilty for how you chose to handle your relationship with Tony. You can feel guilty for how Pepper Potts found out about it. But what you cannot do," he says, squeezing Steve's fingers with surprising strength, "is regret that you have found happiness in the face of tremendous adversity."

"It was wrong," Steve says firmly.

"It was inevitable." Charles replies. "In my experience, relationships don't end due to external factors. They end because of some inherent incompatibility. You weren't part of the hardwired equation—you were simply a catalyst that triggered a mortal flaw, preexisting, in the firmament. There are worse things than falling in love, Steven."

An image leaks into his mind: darkness, a lit menorah, a mother and son. It's the kinda beautiful that goes out the other side of beautiful, that causes shadows to deepen on Charles's face and age him beyond his years.

But then it fades out, the memory of a memory: a cloud crossing the sun. It passes.

* * *

He's sent home with a crate of produce that straps onto the back of his motorcycle. Monday midmorning traffic's not horrible, but he doesn't pull up to the Tower 'til almost eleven. He's in the kitchen on the main floor when his phone rings.

"Hello?" Steve says, fumbling at the touch screen around a handful of tomatoes. He manages to get it against his ear, pinched between his face and his shoulder like a pro. He doesn't drop a single vegetable.

"We're still dating, right?" Tony asks pensively, his voice hazy with exhaustion. "I'm not sure because you're not in bed with me."

"We haven't technically been on a date," Steve points out.

"We went to dinner!"

"To discuss domestic terrorists."

"But—we totally had sex!"

"That was," Steve says, "unrelated."

Tony makes an impatient noise. "If dinner ends in sex, it's a date. And even if it's not, we still have tickets to see _Wicked_."

"When is that, by the way?" Steve asks.

"I don't remember," Tony sighs. "Come to bed."

Steve looks over the tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, eggplant—there's fresh herbs, too, and bread in the cupboard. "You eat today? I'll make you breakfast."

After a beat of silence, Tony says, "Breakfast in bed?"

"Sure," Steve says. "If you shower first."

"Defeats the point of sleeping in."

"That a yes or a no?"

A half hour later, Tony's buried face-down in Steve's Iron Man sheets, his hair still wet and soaking into the pillows. Steve's got a tray of whole-grain toast with sliced tomatoes, olive oil, and cilantro piled on top, and Tony sits up blearily and makes a grab for it.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. We got it," he mentions, absently wiping the crumbs off his mouth with the back of his wrist. His bruises've faded to a dull green, more yellow than anything else. Steve'll be glad to see the last of them. "Loki's stabilized and prepped for the new reactor, and Bruce's reactor is ready, too. We're calling it the HulkOff." He grins broadly. "Not bad for a week's work, huh?"

"No," Steve agrees, flashing him a small smile. I love you, he thinks. The sentiment surfaces for no reason at all. It warms him through.

Tony narrows his eyes speculatively, but finishes his breakfast in silence. Then he sets his plate aside, wiping his mouth on a napkin this time, and swallows about half his orange juice. So he tastes like citrus when he shoves Steve back onto the bed.

* * *

"We'll have to cut into him a tiny bit," Tony admits, scalpel already in hand. He wisely decides to set it aside.

"You would mutilate my brother?" Thor glowers, his arms crossed over his big chest. Steve rests a hand on his back in a vague attempt to dispel some of his anger.

"Just a little," Tony says. "Once the device is implanted, he can let his body heal. Everybody wins."

Thor frowns severely, but there's a helpless twist to his mouth when he glances down at his brother. On the improvised operating table, Loki's pale body stretches long and bony and bare, his hair loose and dark around his shoulders. His half-open eyes sketch sightless paths across the ceiling. Steve's gotta watch him for a long time before he's able to pick out the subtle rise and fall of his stomach, the faint, rare flash of his pulse. He's barely breathing.

Thor touches Loki's hand. "Do this," he says. "Make him whole. I beseech you."

"Sure thing, buddy," Tony tells him seriously.

Clint's still on his way home from his SHIELD debrief, but Natasha's on hand at Steve's side. Tony and Bruce double check the setup and the equipment, moving carefully around each other with the ease of long practice.

"Remember," Tony tells him, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, "Mommy and Daddy still love you very much. I know it seems like the end of the world right now, but this is better for all of us in the long run."

"You're such an asshole," Bruce huffs. But there's no real anger in it, and Steve thinks maybe they're gonna be okay.

"I have been informed that there will likely be a great deal of pain involved," Loki's telling his brother in a soft, thready voice. "It may be for the best if you take your leave until I am sufficiently recovered."

"I _will not_ leave you," Thor growls. Loki reaches out blindly, and when Thor takes his hand, he turns his head to the side. Slowly, slowly, he drags his eyes toward his brother's face.

"Then do not," Loki sighs, speaking with effort. "And remain."

"It'll be over soon," Bruce informs them. He's got a device in his hands, small and sharp-looking, that makes Steve extremely uncomfortable.

"Maybe ten, fifteen minutes tops," Tony adds. Then he explains the procedure.

There's a small bone, just above the sternum, called the manubrium. It's shaped roughly like a medallion. Bruce and Tony'll open Loki up; they'll affix the psychic signal-jamming arc reactor to the backside of the bone; they'll close him up. And, hopefully, Loki'll start to heal.

It's difficult to watch. They can't sedate him—whatever he's done to suppress his healing abilities, he's gotta be conscious to undo it. Anyway, Steve's not even sure there's any drug on Earth powerful enough to affect his alien physiology.

He doesn't scream when they start cutting into him. As Bruce's careful hands maneuver the miniature bone saw, salt gathers in the corners of Loki's wide, unblinking eyes. It trickles down over his temples in bright tracks. Natasha doesn't look away; Tony does; Thor's eyes never leave Loki's face.

For Steve, the world's reduced to the sounds of tight, quietly controlled breathing and the wet rush of air from Loki's open mouth. The muffled crush of cartilage separating from bone.

Natasha smooths her hand over Loki's knee. It's almost maternal.

When Tony carefully removes the manubrium, it slides out like a wet, red sand dollar. His gloved fingers slip over the surface as he finds a grip, sweat beading along his hairline as he drills tiny starter holes into the bone.

Bruce holds his fingers carefully in place, keeps Loki's chest propped open 'til Tony finally screws the arc reactor down. He fiddles with it for a moment, testing the hold, and when he's satisfied, he gently settles the bone back in place. His hands are perfectly steady. Even at Loki's sharp gasp, he doesn't flinch.

Bruce allows the bones and cartilage to fall back into place, closes Loki up with gauze pads and lots of medical tape. "If you can do your healing magic," he tells Loki, "now would be a good time."

With effort, Loki asks, "You are sure?"

"Yes," Bruce says firmly.

"Please," Thor says. He reaches over and smoothes his fingers over Loki's pale face, touches his cheek and his chin, traces the delicate shell of his ear. His hand's splotchy red and white from where Loki's been holding on to it.

"I'll just. I'll be right back," Tony says. He practically flies from the room. Steve follows him.

There's a bathroom in Bruce's lab, but Tony chooses the one in the apartment proper, on the other side of the floor. By the time Steve's caught up with him, he's already bent, dry-heaving, over the toilet.

Steve sits down on the edge of the bathtub and rubs slow circles on his back.

"One time," Tony gasps between huge mouthfuls of air, "I made P-Pepper replace my arc reactor." He coughs wetly, hands gripping the edge of the seat. "I didn't even think about what I was asking her, she was almost crying at the e-end, made me promise never to m-make her do it," there's another stilted pause, and Steve runs his fingers through Tony's hair, touches his neck, palms his spine reassuringly. "N-never to make her do it a-again."

"Did you?" Steve asks softly. "Promise?"

Tony snorts, cautiously sitting back on his knees. He tears off a strip of toilet paper and wipes excess saliva and little bit of bile off his mouth. "No," he says wearily. "No. I told her she was all I h-had."

Steve doesn't say anything, and Tony doesn't look at him.

"In retrospect, I u-used to be kind of a selfish asshole."


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So we need to get past how unpleasant this is and take care of a few things,” Pepper says briskly in his ear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I need to apologize profusely for the fact that it's taken an entire year to give you the last 4000 words of this story. For those of you who have been waiting, I hope you find the epilogue worthy of the rest of the story.
> 
> Second: I'm going to include some notes at the end of the story about things I didn't quite manage to work in. This is so anyone who is interested may continue the story or write tie-ins or whatever. So don't read the notes at the end until you've finished the story, they are kind of spoilery about stuff that was never revealed. Ahahaa.
> 
> The third thing is a huge thank-you, both to my beta who made this entire endeavor a million times more pleasant (and engaging, and better-written!) than it otherwise might have been, and also to all of you who continued to comment and leave kudos and generally just really enjoy the story--even after I went into a year-long hiatus.
> 
> That said, I will probably be done writing fanfiction for awhile. I still plan on updating [Amongst the Acting Powers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/928876), but largely my efforts will be devoted to a new webcomic series I'm co-writing and Illustrating. I'll also be posting occasional short stories and novellas written in that universe.
> 
> My current projects can be found on [war + mercy](http://www.warandmercy.com), and the first page of the webcomic can be found [here](http://btt.webcomic.ws/comics/first/).
> 
> Once again, thanks for everything.

Loki's eyes are closed when Steve gets back, and for one bright, panicked moment he's terrified they've lost him.

Leached of all color, Loki's flesh pulls tight and gray over the sharp angles of his bones. The light above his operating table casts white shadows around his body, and Bruce, staring tersely at the colorful on-screen alerts, almost matches him for pallor.

There's no sound, not even from the computers. Seems like even JARVIS holds his breath.

Almost fifteen minutes pass. Thor's eyes, red-rimmed, never leave Loki's face.

It's just as Tony steps back into the room, sheepish with messy hair over bruises and bleary eyes, that Loki breathes in.

"Is—?"

"It appears so, Sir," JARVIS replies quietly. The numbers on the screen, which'd been red and yellow before, are steadily rising. Some of 'em are turning green.

"We did it," Tony exhales. "I think I need a lie-down."

Thor looms awkwardly, offers both hands to Bruce and Tony one after the other. His palms cover their own, huge and strong, helpless with gratitude and relief. "My friends," he says roughly. His throat works as he tries to say more, but Tony just shakes his head. Claps him on the shoulder.

"We love you too, buddy," he says lightly. His eyes are still kinda wet, probably from throwing up. But maybe not.

Natasha touches Loki's neck, pursing her lips. After a moment, she glances up at all of them. "Pulse is steady," she says, the tense line of her back melting into the soft curves of her body. She smiles, just about stopping Steve's heart 'cause she's so pretty. Probably that's why she saves it, hides it away—she'd never get any work done, looking like this all the time.

Bruce stares at her with raw eyes, and her smile fades somewhat. "That's enough excitement for me," she says, inclining her head slightly. "I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up unless someone's on fire."

"What if we get lonely?" Tony asks, eyebrows raised.

"Then you'll be lonely without one of your limbs," she shoots back dryly.

"Do I get to pick which limb?"

Natasha pretends to consider. "No," she says. "But I suppose I'd let you choose the method of removal."

"Charitable," Tony says.

After she leaves, Clint makes to follow her out. Notices Bruce looking dully at his hands, pauses to get a hold of his forearm with spare, calloused fingers. "Next time,"Clint tells him, soothing and quiet. He goes.

There's silence for all of three seconds while Tony rubs at his nose. Then he says, "All right, Brucey, you're next."

Bruce looks at Tony for a long time, worried and angry , guilty and afraid.

Tony rolls his eyes in a way that makes Steve's heart ache 'cause it's so full of affection, kind you try to hide from yourself, kind everyone sees anyway. Tony's so damn obvious. Steve loves him.

"C'mon, Twizzler, I ain't got all day."

* * *

Later, they use words like _psychoconceptual identity_ and _intracranial intelkinesis_ , get into a complicated metaphor about sheets of rubber and dimensional weight. Describe energy like light slipping through in solid bursts, the _spacetime fabric_ sucking it back up again and sealing itself shut.

They really try, Bruce and Tony. Steve's just not a metaphysically visual person.

"Well, it works," he finally says when they're on their last legs. "That's what matters."

And Steve's fine without knowing how. It's enough to see Bruce come into the kitchen looking like he's slept for a hundred years, a silver dollar-sized medallion tucked under his shirt and glowing very faintly green.

It's enough to see Natasha slide a gently perspiring glass of iced tea across the counter, their fingers touching when Bruce takes it from her.

* * *

Loki heals slowly. For the first week, there's almost no change—he sleeps like a corpse, his wounds raw and bright and heavily seamed when his bandages are changed. He breathes so shallowly that Steve's gotta put a thumb against his pulse just to check it's there. He's moon-pale and rigid, and beside Thor's ever-present bulk, he's got all the substance of a fever dream.

But two weeks in, his color starts to return. He opens his eyes after three, and by the time September rolls around he's even eating again.

So, bearing a gift of Chinese takeout, Steve stops by their floor late on a Sunday afternoon. It's a habit he's never managed to break: making sure the people in his life take care of themselves. It only started with Tony, but it's somehow grown to include all of them. It's a good thing, a warming thing—it's family.

He expects to find them arguing, which is typical, or maybe Loki telling some grand, convoluted fairy story that Steve'll almost recognize from his own childhood. Some days, Thor's hopelessly tangled up in a complicated riddle that ends with the two of them laughing. Flushed and grinning and cupping his elbows, Loki doesn't seem half so fragile as he did. They're all pretty sure he'll be able to walk soon.

Today, though, the castle-styled chambers are oddly quiet. Steve pauses cautiously in the stone hall just outside the open bedroom door.

Inside, Thor's bowed low over Loki's face, blocking him from view. His shoulders bunch together in tight, rigid lines, and Steve can see one of Loki's hands curled bright and pale against his arm.

Sometimes the way they are together—certain shared looks, or the way Thor touches Loki, the way Loki lets him—makes Steve feel as though he's trespassing on sacred ground. He wonders if this is what it means to worship a living god, wonders when they stopped bothering to hide from each other.

Steve hangs back, a young child creeping past an old church, hesitant to disturb their air of reverence.

"You must promise me," Thor's saying in a low rumble. "You _must_. This, if nothing else."

"And Father contends that I am the dramatic one," Loki murmurs wryly, coarse and quiet.

"Loki—"

"I promise, Thor," Loki says shortly, his voice soft and serious. Steve can't see his face, but those thin fingers slide up to circle around the back of his brother's neck.

"Swear it," Thor breathes, rough and unsteady. "Say the words."

"If you insist." Loki's long, bony hands twist cautiously into golden hair. "I swear, Thor, upon the blood arush in my veins. I swear upon the fierce garnet of your anger, and the baleful sapphire of my cold rage. I swear upon the azure of your eyes, and the warmth of your hand on mine."

Thor inhales, slow enough Steve almost misses it, shaky enough he wishes he did. "You must never be without me."

"I must never be without you," Loki echoes. "And as I love you, this I swear: you shall never part from that which you cherish best above all the realms."

Heart hammering, Steve leaves the greasy brown takeout bags just outside the door.

* * *

"What's that?" Steve asks the next day, helping Tony prop up some kinda converter in his lab. They're near one of the computers, and Steve's caught his name on the screen. When he leans down for a closer look, he sees it's got all of them: Tony and Steve and Thor, Bruce and Clint and Natasha. All with neatly-typed dollar amounts the next cell over.

At the bottom, the cursor still blinking, is _Loki_. There's no numbers filled in yet after his name.

"Oh. That's the household account," Tony says. "Weekly allowance."

"What?" Steve asks, bewildered. "You're—why're you _pay_ ing us?"

Tony shoots him a blank look, sweat and a bit of machine oil high on his temple, just above his still-bruised cheek. "I'm not," he says. "I mean, not really. It's just—you guys've got to eat, right? And it's not like we can have real jobs when we're busy saving the world. Natasha drinks expensive tea and I like seeing Bruce in clothes that aren't threadbare from ten previous owners, Clint's gear is all custom—"

"'Not really'," Steve interrupts. "Explain 'not really'."

"Okay. Don't get your panties in a bunch, but." Tony takes a deep breath, spreads his hands over his thighs like he's been found out. "I, ah—own the rights to our identities. Well, the public ones. I mean I trademarked all of our superhero names and likenesses."

Steve stares at him. " _What_?"

"Well, I inherited yours. Sort of. Captain America's trickier because it's also the property of the US Government, and that stuff's mostly public domain. But I get royalties, and I'm the copyright holder for the rest of the team—"

"Are you telling me you _own_ us? Tony, are you kidding me?"

"Well, no, of course not! It just means that I get royalties. _We_ get royalties," he amends conscientiously. He taps his knuckle against Steve's chest, right in the middle of the Iron Man graphic. "Merchandise. Media appearances, interviews, magazine spreads—newspapers, especially. But _I'm_ not making any money off it," he adds hastily. "Almost all of it goes back to the team."

"For expenses?" Steve asks, squinting at the chart again.

"For expenses. I just manage it. Well—I mean, Pepper managed it, and now JARVIS manages it. With occasional assistance from me."

"The highlight of my day," JARVIS says pleasantly.

"Yes, well," Tony says. "It keeps us funded, anyway. And the rest is on reserve for whenever we destroy the city." He pauses. "It's a bit tapped right now, what with Central Park."

Steve turns it over in his head. Eventually he asks, "So these t-shirts." He's wearing the yellow Iron Man one. Makes him feel romantic.

"Yeah," Tony says, smiling slightly. His forehead's smoothed over. He looks relieved. "Royalties."

They finish with the converter, and Steve's phone rings just as Tony's pulling up some designs for a new Avengers toy line. The tiny Iron Man really looks just like him, but someone exaggerated the size of Thor's arms almost comically.

"Rogers," Steve answers promptly.

"So we need to get past how unpleasant this is and take care of a few things," Pepper says briskly in his ear.

Steve leans against the work desk, mouth dry. She's been managing Stark Industries without Tony since she left New York.

"Hello?" Pepper asks impatiently.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm here." Tony's wheeled away from the computer to watch Steve keenly.

"I've managed to keep it out of the papers," Pepper says flatly, "but you're going to have to make a formal announcement. People are starting to notice, and we need to put a positive spin on things."

"Notice—?"

She's silent for half a heartbeat. "That Tony and I aren't together at SI events? That the two of you have been photographed at one of Tony's known date restaurants?"

Her voice is perfectly neutral. Steve's chest aches. "I didn't—think about it."

"Well, welcome to being Tony's partner," she says sharply. "Tony never thinks. You knew full well what you were getting into."

Jaw tight, Steve exhales quiet as he can through his nose.

"I've spent a truly repulsive number of hours," she says pointedly, "for the past month and a half, talking down bloggers and gossip rags. I am a very busy person, Steve. Cleaning up after Tony's scandals was not my favorite chore before I became involved with him, and it sure as hell isn't a picnic after."

"I'll talk to him about it," Steve says stiffly. Tony reaches out to touch his elbow, uncharacteristically reserved.

"See that you do," Pepper says. "We'll need to issue an official statement—something about us growing apart, or that I need to focus on the company now that the Avengers have taken up the bulk of Tony's time."

She doesn't sound bitter, but then she's Pepper Potts. She's nothing if not utterly professional. Even when discussing the publicity control of her breakup with the man her partner cheated with.

Steve meets Tony's eyes, takes in the soft, dark curls at the back of his neck and pressed flat against his forehead. Reaches out to run his fingers through his hair—probably Tony oughta get it cut—and quells a mild wave of nausea.

"With everything that's been going on, it's a good pitch. The never-see-each-other-anymore angle," she continues, almost to herself.

"Not that I don't wanna help, 'cause I do," Steve says gently, "but shouldn't you be having this conversation with Tony?"

Pepper answers quickly enough that Steve feels bad even for asking. "Tony is exactly the last person I should be having this conversation with."

"Okay," Steve says.

"So please talk to him. I'll—I'll schedule the press release for Monday, and it can coincide with the new Hydroponics product line—"

"Okay, Pepper," Steve says again. Tony looks away, awkwardly busies himself with a wrench. He's gonna strip the screw, over-twisting like that. "I'll talk to him when I see him. I'll call you tomorrow."

She's quiet for a few moments. Then she says, "Thank you. Steve."

"Least I can do," Steve says seriously. Then he hangs up the phone, thinking, I should've done better.

* * *

"She's a very busy person," Tony's saying at the podium a week later. "Mostly because I don't have to be anymore. We're still very close."

Steve and Pepper've managed to orchestrate the whole thing, from the talking points to the dark, charcoal-on-black pinstriped suit Tony's wearing. His hair's only a little unruly, his beard neatly trimmed, his makeup flawless over the last of his yellowing bruises. Steve, off to the side, watches apprehensively.

A young journalist up front starts with, "I've heard rumors—," eyebrows knit together and stylus hovering over his tablet, but Tony cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Our relationship ended unofficially several months ago. That's the long and short of it," Tony says. Then he grins. "We were just trying to find the right way to tell you kids. We didn't want you to feel that this was in any way your fault. We promise to remain an active and involved part of your lives. Just—consciously uncoupled."

He gets a few chuckles from the crowd, and a muscular woman with dark hair stands up with her microphone extended. "Sally Floyd, _Front Line_ ," she prefaces.

"Hello, Sally," Tony beams.

"Before your involvement with Miss Potts, _TIME Magazine_ named you America's most eligible bachelor." She tilts her head in mock thoughtfulness. "I notice the internet isn't yet filling up with leaked sex tapes and naked selfies—should we assume you're back on the market?"

Way they'd rehearsed, Tony's meant to drop certain keywords to let his publicists and Pepper (and Steve) know he's answering questions to script. He's meant to brush off the are-you-single question, meant to say, "I need some downtime for now." _Downtime_ 's two or three lines below _conscious uncoupling_ on the list.

But he doesn't say that. Instead, he looks right at Steve, grinning broadly. Then he says, simply, "Nope."

There's a sudden burst of energy, but Tony talks right over the excited din. "That's all I got for now, guys. See ya."

* * *

It's about two in the afternoon, and Steve's got three missed calls from Pepper and a wry text from Natasha that reads, _Good show. Congrats on coming out._

Tony's warm and exhausted against his chest, soft now inside him. Steve kisses the sweat from his temple. "Could've handled that better," he sighs, letting his eyes close.

"I think, under the circumstances," Tony murmurs around a yawn, "I performed admirably. One might even say I exceeded expectations."

The next morning, the _New York Post_ headlines _Iron Man and Captain America: A Super Romance?_ over a blurry but unmistakable photo of the two of them out to dinner.

Steve puts his voicemail on speaker. "Good luck going anywhere without the press up your ass," Pepper's irritated voice remarks coldly.

Steve figures they'll just lay low for awhile. At this point, far as he can tell, it's just speculation—they could officially announce their relationship in a few more more months, maybe. He hasn't got a real good grasp on how this PR stuff works. Probably he's gonna have to learn.

"Looks like we're out," Tony says, glancing gleefully at his phone. "Just in time for our first official date. _Wicked_ tomorrow night!"

"Oh," Steve replies helplessly. "That's great, Tony."

* * *

In the late afternoon, Loki stands for the first time since saving Tony's life. Thor tries to get a nervous arm around him, but Loki ignores him in favor of resting bone-brittle fingers on Steve's arm.

"Your paramour," he says evenly, "has introduced me to a mortal confection known as _star bucks_. I would partake, should you kindly escort me."

Tony, Loki, coffee, Steve thinks. He almost laughs, and it must show 'cause Loki's mouth curls in a small, amused way. "Right. If you can manage a block, I'll walk with you."

"Paramour," Tony mutters, pecking at his phone. "The gall."

It's four of us, Steve thinks worriedly as they make slow progress past a corner shop. It's not a date. It's Tony Stark and some really tall guys hopefully no one'll recognize, and Steve.

"You're Thor," the girl at the counter gushes, calling over one of her coworkers. "Can I get a picture with you?"

Thor agrees graciously, and they end up getting the coffees for free. Tony sticks a hundred dollar bill in the clear plastic tip box, though.

"I find this soothing," Loki sighs, content around his steaming latte. A previous couple left one of the coffee house's plastic chess sets on a nearby table, so Steve's appropriated it. He teaches them the basics of how to play.

"This is really nice," Tony says after a while, watching Loki put Thor in check for the second time. He almost sounds surprised.

"Yeah," Steve says. "We should do it again."

Tony's about to reply when his phone jingles weirdly at his elbow.

"There is a situation in Queens," Fury barks, loud enough for Steve to hear. "If the six of you are finished playing house."

"That's _Tony Stark_ ," someone nearby whispers excitedly. "Do you think—?"

"Seven," Tony corrects. "We've spawned, remember?"

"If you pay very close attention," Fury says in a flat, bored voice, "I'm sure you'll be able to pick up on how exceptionally thrilled I am at this development."

"As you should be," Tony says, glancing up Steve with a bright smile. "It's not like we've been sitting on our asses for the past three months. In one fell swoop, we've managed to head off a second alien invasion, neutralize a social civil war, and add a shiny new powerhouse to your gallery of heroes."

"I believe I have mated you in check, my brother," Thor says hesitantly.

"That is simply not possible," Loki replies.

"Did I miss anything?" Tony asks politely, grinning with teeth.

"Lightyears of paperwork for yours truly," Fury says tightly. "Compromised agents. _Central Park_."

"Which we've taken care of," Tony says hastily.

"We don't have time for this," Fury snaps. "There's a level three gifted we've been trying to contact. About twenty minutes ago, he took a hit during a robbery."

"A robbery," Tony says flatly.

"Apparently the kid ain't bulletproof," Fury says. "We have men on the scene, but it's become a hostage situation."

"Oh, good, I've been itching for another one of those."

"Funny," Fury says coldly. "Get moving."

Steve glances at Thor and Loki, who appear to have started a new game. "How do you wanna play this?"

"If this kid can't handle a freaking robbery without turning it into a _hostage situation_ , he has no business playing hero," Tony complains, standing.

"I meant," Steve says, gesturing toward the other two.

"Oh," Tony says. "Loki, think you can get the big guy home okay?"

"Surely," Loki replies, intent on the relationship between his rook and Thor's bishop. "Don't get yourselves killed."

* * *

It's not too messy by the time everyone's cleared out, but the kid's not in great shape.

"Peter," he says sullenly when Iron Man asks his name. Probably he only answers 'cause he's in shock, and Iron Man can be intimidating. They've got him away from the cops and the reporters, and Steve'd frowned severely when one of the EMTs reaches for the kid's mask. So it stayed on.

"Well, Peter," Iron Man says sharply. "You fucked up. Good luck only gets you so far."

"Fuck you," the kid says tiredly. They've stripped off parts of his rubbery suit to get at the bullet wound, and under the grime and blood it looks like it was mostly blue and red before.

"He's done good work," Steve allows. "Fury said he took out some lizard guy?"

"Yeah, but—he's what, twelve?"

"Oh my god, why are you still here," the kid growls. He doesn't sound too good.

"It's one thing if you're trying to get _yourself_ killed," Tony scolds, "but there were kids in that bank."

"Tony," Steve says quietly. He remembers what it was like to be young, to wanna help. To hate bullies. Wasn't so long ago for him.

"Doesn't matter," the kid's mumbling. "Everyone dies. No p-point. Got uncle Ben killed, got G-Gwen's dad killed, got… Gwen…"

"Oh, shit," Tony sighs, turning his head. "The Stacy kid was your girlfriend?"

"What?" Steve asks.

"I know you're playing catch up," Tony says gently, "but at least watch the news, yeah? About six months back, a whackjob with electrical abilities shut down part of the city. Kidnapped the police chief's daughter. This kid stopped him, but the girl was killed."

"She had a _name_ ," the kid hisses.

"Yeah, well, we all did once." Something's changed in his voice, and he pops up the face of his helmet. "You wanna come back to the Tower with us, Peter?"

* * *

"Can we keep him?" Tony asks, straightening his tie. "I think he's really fitting in."

"Natasha's got him scared to death," Steve reminds him. "Clint's been using him for target practice."

"The patter of little footsteps. The only thing our little family was missing."

Steve shakes his head. "Put your shoes on. I'll pull the car around."

* * *

The curtain goes down for intermission, and Steve's kinda glad he drove 'cause Tony's breath smells like whiskey.

"What do you think so far?" He asks, bright and warm at Steve's side in the big, gorgeous theater. The lights've gone up, but the glorious climax of _Defying Gravity_ still dances brightly over the darkness behind Steve's eyes.

"It's different," he says, thinking about the rush and swell of the music, something like hope hanging off Elphaba's smooth syllables, tangled and trapped in the sincerity of the silly lyrics.

"Different," Tony murmurs, and Steve makes a small huff of a sound and helps him to his feet.

"Different's not bad," Steve says, studying the giant clock on set. He remembers, in this moment, how time gets away from you. How you gotta make choices. "Just gave me a lot to think about."

Tony grabs a couple beers from the bar, visibly irritated when someone steps in to get his picture. He's got wiry black hair and thick glasses, and there's a press badge around his neck that reads _Jose_. Must be here to interview the actors.

"Are you here alone?" He asks Tony pointedly.

Tony opens his mouth, then shuts it again and darts a glance at Steve.

He's asking permission, Steve realizes. He told the world he wasn't single, he told me we were _out_ , he said this was a _date_.

He's waiting for me.

So Steve goes to him, gets an arm around his shoulder. Feels Tony relax against his body. "No," he tells Jose firmly. "He's here with me."

Jose takes a picture, and Steve smiles for the camera. When he shakes his hand, the reporter looks surprised and pleased.

So Steve says, "It's our first date. Wish us luck."

Jose does, sincerely. Then he excuses himself to talk to the man playing Prince Fiyero, though it doesn't look like his heart's really in it.

"You're a goddamned saint, Rogers," Tony says tiredly, staring after him.

"He was gonna get a picture anyway," Steve says, shrugging. "May as well be a nice one."

Tony shakes his head, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "That actually makes perfect logical sense, but. Mostly I think you're just—the most decent man I know. Really."

"Well. I'm no genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist," Steve replies. "But I do what I can."

Tony looks at him for a long time, all humor gone from him. "It's enough," he says softly. "I know guys with all of that worth none of you."

"Tony—," Steve says, chest tight.

Tony leans in and kisses him. "C'mere," he says. "Shut up and just," and Steve does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Things I meant to include, but didn't.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \+ Clint and Natasha's later warmth toward Loki (well, unwillingness to let him die) is because Loki can/does bring Coulson back. This was the idea before SHIELD happened, but then SHIELD happened and I never really got around to writing it into the main _Freeway_ storyline. Also, Clint and Natasha fight some gross zombies or something early on (the mission she comes back from and Bruce is taking out a bullet, the one where Clint loses an eye).
> 
> +Clint/Bruce/Natasha is kind of a background pairing I was working up to. (In my brain I was calling it "BlackEye" for Black Widow/Hawkeye plus the implication of violence [Hulk] ahahaahaaa. But don't call it that, that is dumb).
> 
> +Sort of a buildup to Superfamily with Peter Parker.
> 
> +Pepper/JARVIS is something I've been wanting to write since [Room by Room](http://archiveofourown.org/works/543635), but never go around to. Someone please write Pepper/JARVIS in this universe.
> 
> And that's all she wrote, folks.


End file.
